a crescent moon, hangs like a scar
on her shoulder’s silence.
her lips sealed
by vow or violence.
her eyes do not ask.
they know.
they have watched empires bleed
on blades of their own lies.
she stands in gray,
spine unbent,
each scar a sentence
she never had to explain.
call it rebellion.
call it myth.
a woman
who no longer waits.
she is the ink and the echo,
the storm braided into calm.
you may look,
but you will not read her.
not everyone sees
what silence reveals.
so i offer you a line,
a voice shaped by defiance,
a presence drawn in truth.
let me speak for her,
since her lips are sealed:
she would not kneel.
she is here
for you to bow.
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