In stone-bound dark where silence learns to ache,
she kneels with iron sorrow at her wrist,
a daughter born where broken echoes wake
and hope is taught to whisper when it’s missed.

Yet in her breath, a brighter truth takes hold—
a spark no chain nor dungeon can deny.
She rises, shedding shadow into gold,
a specter forged of flame and lifted sky.

The shackles fall. The night forgets its claim.
She blooms at once—a rose of crimson fire,
each petal carved from suffering and flame,
each thorn a vow the dark could not retire.

But darkness waits, as darkness always does.
The walls return. The petals fade to stone.
The rose dissolves to echoes of what was,
and she is left once more to kneel alone.

Still know this truth the cycle can’t erase:
each fall remembers how to rise again.