She had made the remote controls blush
Of the world’s televisions
Her mouth bewitched the world
Of the art she held captive

He was a small actor in a hurry
He crossed her every morning.
One day he offered her his hand,
She continued without stopping.

It was said that strolling like a September evening
On the plateau the night picked up her smiles
While the stars, on dissonant tunes,
Danced while waiting for her to grow old.

One morning, in the shadow of her body,
Appeared to her gaping, from another sky
Like a remorse sprung from the original being
A spiral of hate, an avalanche of gall
That carried her away from the work of goldsmiths
Of the storytellers of romances and good feelings.

During this time her former suitor
Chained flashes on the bodies of the living.
She only aspired to join the film sets
Her life was drying up without the fury of acting
The doors were closed to her, citing her age
Then her number was suddenly called.

She was offered to play a mother.
They didn’t even have to char her dark circles
Her enthusiasm gave her rage:
She played for a long time, until exhaustion

Her former suitor evoked the ravages of time
Looking at the complexion of the woman of yesteryear
He had engaged her, in a vengeful way:
He was playing her son in this new play

A plane cannot dispel the clouds;
Nor does art recognize its own mirages:
A woman can live the same life as a man
On condition that she is allowed to occupy the podium