The girl sat at the bench every thursday afternoon, blue eyes, black hat
Notebook in hand, there she sat
I stared at her writing with her red ink pen
Her blonde hair swaying in the wind, looking almost golden
Nobody knows her name, not even herself
What's her story? Where's she from?
Everybody stares at her writing, listening to her hum
The trees frame her beauty, hair flailing in the sun
You can't help but exclaim in awe
Her aura made to stun
The famous girl isn't famous
Because she doesn't exist
Her body isn't here
No matter how much you insist
1954-1970
Goodbye
