Be a poem, O’ Prettiest, not mere breath—
A song that lingers past life and death.
Not dust in the wind, nor fading light,
But verses born of truth and might.

Do not doze in slumber’s keep,
While dreams like stars in silence sleep.
Be the lamp that greets the morn,
The spark from which the soul is born.

Within your veins a rhythm flows,
A secret only silence knows.
Time bears a tune that waits in you—
A golden song, eternal, true.

Kindle your core, let spirit rise,
For heaven sees through watchful eyes.
Be not a whisper lost to air,
But voice of fire, bold and rare.

You are no myth, no fleeting flame—
But sacred blaze none dare to tame.
If storms of time you do not bind,
Then be the tide that stirs mankind.

This world’s a stage, a shifting mist—
Be its refrain, O’ Prettiest.
A cry, a kiss, a sacred sign—
The mirror where all truths align.

Ask not the worth of your own name—
You are the self, the living flame.
Be melody the soul reveres,
Love’s voice that echoes through the years.

In the hush of time, where shadows do align,  
Thy words resound, like a sacred sign.  

An eagle I stand, though wings yet unformed,  
In the winds of trial, my spirit is warmed.  

The acid of hardship, with fury doth bite,  
Yet in its cruel grasp, I find my might.  

My scars, like jewels, shall crown me with pride,  
For each one whispers of the battles I've defied.  

Behind veils of hatred, where cold winds do sweep,  
I forge a new tongue that the world cannot keep.  

A language of truth, where love's purest art,  
Speaks the deepest secrets of the undying heart.  

Though fate may seem barren, its hand cruel and still,  
I bend it to my will, and my soul shall fulfil.  

For destiny’s course is not set in the stone—  
I carve my own path, and I stand alone.  

O' voice of righteousness, whose fire doth burn,  
In thy light, I rise, in thy wisdom, I turn.  

I gaze in the mirror, and see with clear sight,  
A place of my making, where courage takes flight.