Each morning at the first break of dawn,
She lies in wait, like a withered pawn.
Fixed in time, between dream and day,
She guards the hour, I lose my way.
Golden patches trace over her skin,
Feathers run black, darkeness within.
She shows her back, never her face,
A wistful charm, offering some grace.
Perched like an old habit, she sits alone,
A call to write something, yet unknown.
She means to observe, not to interfere,
A mirror with wings, both far and near.