A "ya" so high

At the corner of the triangular square, by the Grove's gardens, a silver lining. Minute, petite, forceful traveler of ages, she puts her hand near the wooden bench. Mold, green and humid in her hand. Taken directly to the side of trousers, oh so red. At seven, she woke, in the interiors of Louyang, was grabbed from her bed, and walked for times as long as incense can burn. Frost bite, decay, peaks of snow, and infinite rows of paddies in the way. She was given in secret a child's sword. Or well, she took it. And in that sword, lining. And in that lining, silver. And her reflection. Just as bright as this morning's shining. There, in the park, collected and together. Now 65. Now about to exercise. To expand a routine that can fiercely defeat rows of armies and fighters. A routine so rehearsed that lasts, if only, fourth fiver minutes. A routine were no word is uttered. A routine on grass, green, in the confines of British black steal. A cage so thin, unable to confine her lament, that very last "ya" as strong as the lament when her father died.