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She lives in every stanza that I write,
A pulse that beats beneath the page and breath.
Though vanished now, she lingers in the light,
A shade that dances past the gate of death.
No word can bind the mystery she became,
For she exceeds the titles mortals give.
She is the fire unnamed, the secret flame,
That breathes in myths and makes the shadows live.
She claimed no vow, no promise to the soul,
Yet left behind a world no rule can hold.
No reason tames her; passion breaks control,
And through her silence, truths are bright and bold.
Each poem bears the mark she left in time,
A mirror wrought of rhythm, fire and rhyme. |
