There’s something in her I won’t name
A hush of wind, a candle flame.
Not made for grasping, not to own,
She is the wild, the seed, the stone.
She doesn’t try to draw the eye,
Yet still, the world forgets the sky.
She moves as though the earth was told
To cradle life in curves of gold.
Her voice? It’s warmth in twilight air,
A lullaby, a whispered prayer.
Her smile? The sun through window panes,
That touches soul before it rains.
She doesn’t rule - and yet, she reigns.
She doesn’t fight - but breaks my chains.
She’s softness made by nature’s hand
To melt the steel in every man.
She speaks in silence, sees in shade,
And somehow knows what’s not yet said.
She tends, she weaves, she kneels to none,
Yet all I am revolves her sun.
I’ve seen her cry - and not from fear,
But from a strength too deep, too near.
A well of life, a boundless sea
That dares to bloom and still be free.
She is the reason poems start,
The gentle architect of heart.
The one who holds without a grip,
Who builds a world with fingertip.
And if the stars should all erase,
I’d find the universe in her face.
For she’s not mine - she’s something more:
The sacred I was made to adore
This poem is a hymn of reverence - an ode from a man who sees in his beloved not just beauty or affection, but the sacred architecture of life itself. She is not defined by roles or possessions, but by her elemental force: soft yet unyielding, nurturing yet untamed. In her, he perceives the mystery of creation, the poetry of emotion, and the quiet power nature entrusts to the feminine form. It is not submission she inspires, but devotion - the kind born from awe, not ownership