She is a woman of God and stature, weaving through the cobblestone streets with her brightly colored scarf prominent amongst the crowd. Grace and humility cling to her like a luxurious fragrance, turning heads in silent awe. Her eyes are a mystery, fierce and determined. She is a rose among thorns, a beauty to behold.
She is thick, unruly hair and dark skin as smooth as velvet. Her eyes carry the pain of those before her, but she remains poised in spite of it. Her back holds the weight of a thousand cries she uses to fuel her strength. She is utterly indestructible, a mountain holding the ends of the earth together.
She is curves and sharp features, steady hands revealing stories of courage in trying times. Her voice is a haunting melody, her words like songs and prayers the world longs to hear. She is the permanent crease in her forehead, a symbol of all that she has endured. She is all the broken, cracked pieces she assembled herself, a warrior and a queen.
She is poetry in itself, endless lines and stanzas of pain and joy and hope and survival. She is the heart that plants flowers in desolate fields, the heart that battles against its oppressors, the heart that allows tears to flow freely just as abundantly as it allows laughter. She is the heart that feels deeply, that gives freely, that loves fiercely.
Her bright and beautiful soul shines like a torch, lighting the path of everyone she touches with it. She is ethereal and exquisite, made of silver and gold. She is everything and she will apologize for nothing.