Yet she died

Many centuries ago
she died.
she never wanted to leave. yet she died.
she was the best girl. yet she died.
she never made a sound. Yet she died.
she was beautiful. yet she died.
she worshiped her mother. yet she died.
she expended her last sweat for you and for me and for everybody.
yet she died.
she made dazzling robes. she turned the tide.
she loved the orphans. she wrote fairy-tales.
yet she cried.
she sang, she danced, she laughed.
the world needed her.
yet she cried.
she was like a morning sun. like a chanting rain.
she was rabindranath’s urmimala, mangan’s sister.
mclean wrote winterwood for her. spidy’s aunt was this girl.
if forrest was the pea, she was the carrot.
or just the other way around.
quantum electromagnetic theory is meaningless without her.
Before the viking funeral, v slept in her arms.
vincent van gogh was her alias.
she worked as the bartender at the folies-bergere.
her secret admirer made a flute, played for her, before the sleepy blue ocean.

......

but these were many centuries ago.
then why this reminiscence?
cause, she died.