An gentle breeze touches her face.
A sign of beauty, a sign of grace.
That makes her forget about the world.
For that split second she's in her place.
A sanctuary of her own space.
That she always enjoys so much.
For that is the beauty of what is made.
It always touches you, always the same.
But this one was different.
It had a touch a certain feel.
That made it so ideal.
For her to be relaxed.
Now it's gone it is no more.
Like a cloud passing through a storm.
Just drifting away.
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Yami Akuma
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