There once was a woman who lived in a town

Surrounded by country and flowers.
She was often seen with a white woven basket
Walking through fields for hours.
Those who approached her ailing or hurt
She dropped down to help, getting mud on her skirt.

But what is life if not ideal?

It matters not what we see, think, or feel.
We face joy and hardships
From our births to our deaths,
‘Till the moment we take our final breaths.

The woman may have helped too much

So magical did she appear.
She healed those in need with a kind, gentle touch
And wiped away every tear.
Word of her healing spread far and wide,
So when they came for her, there was nowhere to hide.

But what is life if not ideal?

It matters not what we see, think, or feel.
We face joy and hardships
From our births to our deaths.
‘Till the moment we take our final breaths.

At a wooden steak the woman burns,

Her hands bound tight with twine.
Her tear-stained face tilts towards the sky,
She’s running out of time.
It shouldn’t have been her time to die,
But what is life if not goodbye?