In his name
she lost hers.

Silver sin -
her knife as a mirror -
to know her face,
the reflection
of the human race
(against mortality)?

Hair and skin hidden,
under the foggy veils
of hideous projection,
she carries a screen
to supposedly protect herself.

Submissive women like her
strive to turn known suffering
into a source of pleasure;
how sad,
how clever.

Every decision she makes
shows that air
is so much heavier
on feminine shoulders,
still, today many have
locked up their own right
to simply complain.

Every step she takes
proves that the ground is slippery
and the only stick she can lean on
is made of strong, meaningless denial.

The best intentions
are the very gravestones
on which she walks:
overzealous perfection
traveling to the heart,
cutting off the carotid artery
until the hemorrhage of emotions
stains her sheets at night.

Where's the crystal box
wherein the hunter was supposed to keep
Snow-white's heart?
Now they display
her stepmother's
bloodred clockwork in it
before burying it
far from sight.

It wasn't the mirror,
but the hunter's gaze
that separated the two generations,
creating rivalry
where once was understanding
and vital transmission.

In his name,
she no longer has a heart.