When I first came, pictures of me were taken without asking my permission. Whispers about my prettiness were heard among the clicking and snapping shutters. Plays, festivals, dinners, travel were common to me. And though I hadn’t any interest in them, men clamored for my laugh and attention. I was never so fickle and never let one lover touch me. The sun again will stand still, the light of the day I will behold once more before the footsteps of my ancient path will be soon forgotten. Seasons must go. No need to sulk, no need to smile. By winter’s dawn, the blaze of all the heavens may be once seen again in a solitary moment before my heart leaps into the memory of the unlit street. In time, nothing bitter or acrid or salty of me will remain, not even an aftertaste, nor the touch of cinnamon dust on the tip of my tongue will be by anyone twice remembered.