She was a thief. She stole things & she stole heed. Someone could get lost in her void and never come back for he would be stolen of himself, replaced by part of herself. She was called Cyra. A washerwoman once beat her at my face. She stole a cloth. A cloth that was magnificent. Now the same cloth is drowning at the very end of me. They never give, so she steals. And she stole my heart. This is a personification. But indeed it is true. When the goldsmith came and found her forlorn, she took his beating and