Her soft curls are thin
Her wrinkled face, full of laughter
But away from conversation
You see the tiredness
The life draining, slowly, out of her
It will not be long now
Not long at all
Until she leaves us
And we will cry and mourn for her
"One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade dismally with age."
-James Joyce, "The Dead"
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