"Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth,
For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures,
And talk is a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love".
(Francis Bacon, January 1561 - 9 April 1626)
Her solitude
She stood there,
In the immense wasteland
of yester-years,
Alone.
Memories of a lifetime,
are like birds of prey
Circling and havoring
her solitude.
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