She passes by though long ago
Time drained the life out of her tread;
She died then, yet she does not know
That she is dead.

Her footsteps are indefinite
With sound, and who are dead should pass
Sandaled as the wind when it
Moves through the grass.

Her shadow twitches on the walk,
And who are not of life should run
Shadowless as a lily's stalk
In full day's sun.

Yet these cling to her: stricken sound
And shadow casting ragged stains;
They drag behind her on the ground
Like broken chains.

It is silence mastering her tread,
Darkness, insidious and slow,
Blotting her imprint... but she is dead
And does not know.