She loved as Tigers cross the snow —
Without a sound, without a plea,
With golden fires beneath her ribs
And ancient storms beneath the sea.
Her heart was not a fragile thing,
Nor made of lace, nor born to kneel;
It held the silence of the woods
And all the wounds that would not heal.
She knew the language of the thorns,
The secret architecture of pain;
She wore her scars like constellations,
And learned to bloom beneath the rain.
For she could love with open hands
And still possess the strength to leave;
Could hold a universe in silence,
Yet never beg the stars to stay.
There was a wilderness in her —
A kingdom no one could possess;
A thousand flowers growing wild
Where others planted emptiness.
And if you touched her soul with care,
You’d find a tenderness untamed;
But those who tried to cage her heart
Would only hear the forest rage.
For love, to her, was never chains,
Nor was devotion self-betrayal.
She’d rather walk through endless night
Than lose herself to someone’s shadow.
And when the moon descended low,
And all the world forgot her name,
A Tiger slept beneath her skin —
Still beautiful. Still wild. Still flame.
