There was an old film. Main heroine was absolutely flawless.
She was the strength, the whim, the perfectly concealed sadness.
I loved how she stood, how she walked, how she smiled,
She was the way I wished to be, how I desired.

She was inspiration, she walked streets of Paris…
On film, with great action and drama that kills.
Her hair with such curls, the dress and the pearls,
The flick of her scarf and “enough!” shout in part…

I adored her demeanour, I beloved her distress
I was told in grade 12 that she was a mistress
That she cheated on husband, that she lived then alone
She was battling some hazards, she was tough on thin sole

I beloved her for truthful, for her strong will and spirit
With the mules she wore during cannes and how she drank down spirits
With champagne in her hands, with a cigarette held
She was still holding breathes, to those with fighting will

With the years passing by, with the withering flowers
I just managed to buy perfect pair of thin soles
I got present to self, that resemble my love
I got mules that she wore, I have piece I adore