Iron.

Iron.

Lilly.
Lily.
I like lilies.
I got a white lily for his grandfather once.
For his grandfather at his grandfather´s funeral.
His mother cried when she saw the lily.
The white lily.
She started to cry when she saw the big blossom of the white lily in my hands.
The blossom, white and bloomy and in her full bloom from my hands to the table.
On the table.
Wrapped in paper.
Still.
It´s not for her.
It´s not for the good,
not for the good thing.
It´s for his grandfather.
For him, whom I never met.
And,
never will.

He was at his bloom.
Not there yet.
But she didn´t mind.
So much left.
So many things to do.
The new house consisted of walls only.
Yet.
But she didn´t care.
They were so young.
Still.
But that didn´t count.
Not for her,
her,
her, with so many names,
so many names and so many faces, faces so pretty and faces so perfect and absolute
silver.
Silver and cold and cold and iron.
Just iron.
Never got a lily for him.
For him, whom I always loved.
Always.
Never got a white lily for him.
Not for him and not for his funeral.
Because
of her pretty face, pretty, perfect, iron face.
Because,
she is iron.

(November 2012)