A poem about the Jondrette girl.

She dances,

This flame, this enigma,

Dances between the ethereal and the earthly,

Constantly flitting;

Never fitting.

She is a ghost,

Long dead,

Long since separated from life.

She is a spirit,

Who beckons and beckons;

But no one ever comes.

No one can hear her cries.

The silence has swallowed them,

Absorbed them,

Consumed them.

No one can see the anguish,

The melancholy behind

That beckoning smile,

The curl of a finger.

She yearns to be free,

To freely fly

Through the cerulean sky,

To swim through

The periwinkle waters,

And to have no more pain.

But she is constantly flitting

And never fitting.

There is no place for her in either realm

And she shall always be

Neither here,

Nor there.