Gently calling, softly singing, the lone bird and the quiet meadow;

Gazing out, onto the moonlit grass, sat Genevieve looking out a window;

Hand pressed flat against an ice cold pane, pale worn lips drawn tightly;

Hair fallen limply about narrow shoulders, a hollow gaze an air so deadly;

A deer's calm expression, a doe's fawn prancing, such a sight to behold;

Hooves hitting the ground, dancing lightly across a moonlit meadow;

A flicker of a smile, a ghost of hope entering a sickly soul;

Fingers bending ever so slightly, finger prints marring a once clear glass;

Dew catching the moonlight, causes foliage to twinkle, as if a million stars graced the earth;

Young Genevieve, her imagination wandering, wished to be traipsing about rather then lay by hearth;

Blond curls, once so luscious and soft, now dry and withered adorned her sickly pallor;

Cracked lips turned into an upward smile, paper thin skin bruised from the slightest of bumps;

Dear young Genevieve, once to full of life my dear, now suffering an elder's demise;

Caged liked the bird that rested in its gilded cage by her bedside, longing to be free;

Moonlight streamed through the window as the girl lay back, whilst listening to the bird;

Eyes shut gently, a rattling breath escaped her lips, and a soul leapt into the sky;

Dear young Genevieve, how full of life you were, how pure were your desires?
A light among the world, a hope to all who live, a kind word and a soft blessing;

You never picked out another's faults, your caring attitude, but now calling;

Go in peace, sweet young girl, never to be afraid, never to be injured, never to worry, go in peace;