Her white porcelain skin,
her words always silent
her eyes fixed upon mine,
as lifeless as these walls, yet stronger than stone could ever be.
Her hands ice cold and stiff,
like statues of the ancient greeks.
But something made me think of her higher than of any other companion.
When I touched that freezing hand,
I was compelled by a thought
that maybe nothing really is impossible.
How else would you explain
a dead living?
Jehona Thaqi©, unfinished poem