who is she?
No one is really quite sure where she came from, where she was going, or what she'd do once she got there. Not that she herself seemed any more sure.She was a patchwork, a cobbled-together whole of diverse parts, and more than a little mad, they said. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, they respected her. She knew the languages of the ravens, remembered the forgotten, and felt the heartbeat of the city. One eye reflected earth, the other, sky. She walked in more than one world, and left her mark on only a few.
She doesn't speak a name, yet they all know hers.
She is a shadow on the wind, the spring in the trees, a rag-bag, scatter-step tatterdemalion with a head full of sky.
scribbles on the wall
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