A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
T.S. Eliot
