Description
Veiled in rouge beneath a concrete crown,
She stands, a silent sentinel, gown worn down.
Around her, the leaves whisper secrets of old,
Her eyes, dark pools, stories untold.
In a world that's moved on, she lingers yet,
A memory, a moment, we dare not forget.
Her red shawl, a flag in a forgotten fight,
Against the march of days and the oncoming night.
The walls, aged and weary, keep her embraced,
While nature's tendrils around her are laced.
In the quiet, there’s a strength, a subtle grace,
In the soft, solemn beauty of her face.
She is the keeper of forgotten tales,
Where the echo of history never fails.
In her vigil, she finds no need for words,
Her presence, more poignant than the songs of birds.
This is her theatre, her silent stage,
A living portrait from another age.
Red, the color of passion, of a love that burns,
In this hushed corner of the world, where time turns.
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