Born in the Cypriot sea off the coast of Pithari, the village by the water.

The blues and yellows turned to green, sunlit beaches covered in stone.

Flowers wilted with the seasons change. People came and went. She found solitude in conversation. Time alone was hardly spent.

A women worked in the village, needle to thread on her own. Her finger bled a pretty rose. It dyed the silk she sewed.

She reveled in the mistake taking pleasure in the natural process of life that folds into her work.

There was freedom in the space, she built hand by hand.

But isolation suppressed content, trapped is what she felt.

Her body, her vessel, would work and often feel, but sometimes she was unsure how to separate the imagination from the real.

Wrapped in a ribbon,

tied with a bow.

Her secret stayed sealed in the mind where the body would never go.