I am not healed quite yet;

Blood still falls

Like rose petals in autumn,

Spotting my pale skin,

Staining it with remnants of agony.

I am not cured quite yet;

Sickness still infiltrates,

Like poison in a raging river.

My throat is straining with pain,

Unable to speak my agony.

I am not mended quite yet;

Scars still scratch my skin

Like silver trails of shooting stars.

My blemished skin stretching

Between beauty and ugly agony.

I am not restore yet

To my former self,

Though if I may be frank

I never will be completely put back;

A burned forest will not grow identically back.