The wooden girl didn't arrive here walking;
suddenly there she was sitting on the cobbles,
old flowers from the sea covering her head,
her expression having the sadness of roots.
There she stayed, gazing upon our open lives,
the going and being and walking and returning over the earth,
the day fading its gradual petals.
The wooden girl watched us without seeing us:
crowned by the ancient waves,
there she was looking out with her lost eyes.
She would know that we live in a distant net
of time and water and waves and sounds and rain,
without knowing if we exist or if we are her dream.
This is the story of the wooden girl.
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