Soft lips, wet and bluish
A mouth so still, set in a pitiful shape
A sorrow laden chest covered
Sorrow, for a loved father, for a wretched love
a watery grave was gifted,
washing away madness
You glided down; fabrics for a maiden
they obscured you in the murky depths
A maiden, not a breeder of sins
Pansies caught in your hair
What do you think about?
Soft hands, pruned and paled
Listless arms embraced death
Hitting the bottom makes the silt restless
Ophelia, you sing no more.