Youth and beauty

Some people said she was young and beautifull. The lonely carriage sent her away to the humid ground, near a laurel tree. Some people, not too much people, cried for her, during that shiny funeral in the summer of the year. She died in her sleep. It was not a good death, just a better death. Her name was Edith Wharton, she was 21 years old. She was young at that age. She was possibly beautifull - some people put it that way. I carry no powers to see her face now. I'm unable to assure you that she was beautifull indeed. Now I can scarcely believe it. She was young for sure, 21. But beautifull? How can I face her face now? I cannot see her through the wooden casket where she lies. The earth above her is too thick, too darkened by the wings of time. She is just a constelation of white bones and wrapped linen. No one can reach her now. Not even me. I will sleep around her grave, dreaming of her youth and beauty. Death awaits us all. I'm waiting for death.