A woman and nothing more,
yet the sight of whom does implore
the query of forgotten youth,
the worry for future age uncouth,
but still a woman and nothing more.

Raven feathers down her hair,
while endless shadows fill her stare,
and though regal her flawless flesh,
the toil of years shall soon digress,
but still a woman and nothing more.

A bosom pale as winter snow
shall soon rather be cloaked unknown.
Hands untouched from working callous
shall be restrained from youthful chalice.
Yet still a woman and nothing more.

Her countenance smooth, untouched by stress,
may soon wrinkle from years' duress.
Her full lips smile with hinting message,
yet will be dry in coming years' passage.
Yet still a woman and nothing more.

A woman and nothing more is she
who sits with image to captured be,
to forever remember this moment fleeting,
as the revelation of Time's own keeping,
that she is a woman and nothing more.