If only she could close her eyes
to the stinging wind,
the incessant cavalcade
of happenings.
She no longer thinks of what
she sees, no more
than you think of breathing.
A century
has passed
like the many distractions
of a peculiar day.
And these thoughts, too, will be lost
in a draining pool of ephemera.
Nothing, not even her marble presence,
escapes the patient, eroding wind,
the rain of acid.
Still, she is blessed with longevity,
though it is also her curse.
Despite those fine, feathered wings,
she has no sanction to fly.