Yana

In the white washed ruins, proclaimed by the sea, let me show you her room, such an uncommon name, her cross of Saint Anthony, swings gently from a chain, dispels any sense of doom, evenings at the infirmary, the sky maritime blue, a doctor's sad face, nothing as it should be, she is free from pain, where are all those tunes, she sang at summer's revelry, taking bets who knew, her laughter's gentle reign, rouses us from apathy, she won’t come again, loss brings such certainty.