Here she comes, a priestess dressed in silver, dark eyes and red and gold in her hair. She's leaning between pages of Art, floating all over deep feelings carved on white canvas. Art always touches her deep inside, lessing the otherwise too heavy to carry weight of her eternal loneliness. She looks on the mirror and says to herself: mirror, mirror am I at least worth of walking this path?

One day she saw a wanderer cross the streets with his guitar and a sad look in his eyes, his soul so naked on the deep brown that she was lost forever on the sad beauty of that eyes and the sweet voice that sounded as coming from somewhere so far deeper as his heart. Although his songs were not for her she fell in love. As he continued to walk she left, without looking behind, for nothing else could matter more than be at least near this wanderer, even if he never perceived she was at his side. As he slept she would go near him and sweetly contemplate his face, his long eyelids, imagining how could be the dreams he would be wandering in, stroking his hair so gently that he would not wake and hiding behind the woods when he stretched his arms and went again on his path. She saw him sing his songs for a thousand lovers and any of them could not give him what he was looking for. She was at his side, but it didn't matter. The wanderer always looked for love one step away.
In time he discovered she there, and even gave her a taste of happiness. But his songs were never for her and he kept seeking and seeking away what she could give her soul to offer him. Tiresome as it can look, she never left hope of one day bringing new light to his eyes. And every time she closed her eyes to feel the sweetness of his embrace, even if his heart was broken by the last unfaithful lover, even if to him she was nothing more than a ghost, she knew that her love was fulfilled. Tenderness, a little tenderness. The most important thing in the world.

And now she looks in the mirror. A ghost. Invisible. But happy, oh so happy in simply walking the path. Still waiting. Will one day this wanderer look at her eyes and see how deeply she loves him? Will he once again look at his side? Touching a thousand souls with his songs will he one day play his guitar for her, thinking of her and of no one else? She has no right to ask. Leave it to dreams still to dream. She's just a priestess fool enough to have fall in love. No distant perfect princess, no beauty, no fairy. A dreamer. And she turns the page of the book to see the next picture and wanders in Art again.