The dawn spills gold upon her footsteps, trailing fire where she treads, The sky bends low to taste her laughter, as the morning bows its weary head. The wind upbraids her flowing tresses, weaves them into silken streams, And every eye that dares behold her, wakes to life from broken dreams. Her voice is water over marble, tracing lines in sculpted stone, A song that lingers past its singing, sweet and bright yet still unknown. The roses bloom beneath her fingers, petals part at her command, Yet even thorns would turn to velvet, just to brush against her hand.
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