On the way stooped a little woman. The path now paved with symmetric stone. There she stood with grey hair flowing, watching dancing shadows on her hand. On the way grew blades of grass. A symbol of life between the cracks.

For ever, for none, the shadows danced; of swaying leaves, and wisps of hair; of branches and blades of grass.

The shadows danced.

Of ancient walks, and cracking hands, and death. Death of a lovely girl, who once walked this path. Alone. When the grass was always green, and young, and free. When the skin of the earth was fresh, and vibrated with harmonious chords through her body.

Now – death. And cold. And smiling lips of sagging flesh.

Slowly, carefully, she kneels down and plucks a blade. Stabs it deeply into her cracked chest. Upon her bloodless palm shadows change: the green knife catching the gentle breeze.