She was there—
barefoot in the dust of a thousand battles,
skirt hem soaked in the sweat of fields she did not own.
Her hands, raw from the weight of picket signs and plow handles,
gripped the edges of history,
pulling it toward her like a stubborn thread.
They wrote her out of the story,
but she pressed ink to paper,
pressed footprints into roads where no woman had walked before,
pressed her voice into the air until it cracked open the sky.

She is here—
spine straight under the weight of expectation,
heels clicking against marble floors,
boots sinking into the soil of land she now calls her own.
She stitches wounds with steady hands,
writes laws with the same fingers
that once curled into fists.
She feeds, she builds, she leads—
a quiet rebellion in the way she simply refuses to break.

She will be—
a name carved into the bones of tomorrow,
a shadow stretching past the horizon,
a flame catching on the hem of a new world.
She will stand at the edge of invention,
her hands steady on the wheel of what’s to come,
eyes sharp as a blade against the spine of fate.
She will not ask permission.
She will not wait her turn.

She rises.
She has always risen.
She will rise again.