A woman—what is she, if not a mystery written in fire?
She speaks, and her words wound and heal alike.
She loves, and in her love, one either lives or perishes.
She is neither angel nor devil, yet possesses the cruelty of both.

Men dream of understanding her,
as a blind man dreams of light—
but what folly! What arrogance!
For even as she stands before him,
laughing, crying, whispering secrets into the night,
she remains unknowable, a labyrinth without an exit.

She does not belong to him, nor to the world.
She belongs only to the chaos of her own heart.
And God help the man who loves her,
for he will never escape her shadow.