The girl is powdering her nose,
A brush and mirror in her hands;
The artist caught her mundane pose,
Familiar still, to any man.
What notions fill that pretty head?
We'll never know, they're lost to time;
Pompeii and she are long-since dead,
But here we see her in her prime.
Two thousand years have passed, and yet,
The mural of the girl still gives
A hint of her brief pirouette
Through life, and love, as though she lives.
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