She only hears the rooster's call
In the morning and peeks deeply
At the sun's beams through the window
The way she reads a talking mouth.

She's twenty-two but thinks like twelve
Keeping fairytales in her nook
How a sixth grader reads a book.
Old papers hide in her basket

With her touch becomes piece of art
As she tears and folds the pages
Forming flowers, vases and doves.
She has come to her youth alone

Having only eyes that behold
And listen to what she cannot hear.
She's twenty-two but loves and cares
Like a woman bearing a child.