She walks relentlessly to and fro
Silent, serene without much ado
What does she search incessantly?
Her shrinking weak, thin physique shaking
Her nerves and bones tingling and aching
Why does she run passionately?

She’s senile? To me I often say
There’s every sign I see anyway
‘Tell me your secret, my dear mother;
Is an evil spirit haunting you?
Is any power par pulling you?
Why this food in your carrier?’

It’s then when I went on her way once
Of course, out of meager eagerness
A half-dead woman she did show;
‘She’s my sister. Weaker than me, see!
Who’s for her, in this world, but, me?’
She isn’t. I’m senile. Now I know.