A malady — or perhaps a curse —  
That swells within — a quiet verse,  
Her eyes, aglow — with secret fire,  
As if the world had spun entire  
Around that spark — a fleeting grace,  
A trace of Heaven — on her face.  

The glow, not born of earthly light,  
But something deep — a quiet fight  
Between the realms of flesh and air,  
Where mortals falter, yet she dares  
To lift the veil — and there, behold —  
A sacred tale, both fierce and old.  

It shimmers like a whispered prayer,  
A song that's sung — but never there.  
A verse, a rhythm, soft and true,  
But none can read the words that grew  
From that deep well, where time does slip,  
And souls are bound in ancient script.  

A curse, or blessing — who can say?  
Her gaze, the dawn, the dying day,  
An endless riddle wrapped in light —  
A burden and a dazzling sight.  
To touch it would consume the soul,  
Yet in its grasp, we are made whole.