She Who Wears The Sun. Poem by WIN VENTURA

She walks alone where the forest bows,
Sunlight kissing her forehead, unvowed.
Through canopies thick with whispered tales,
She rides the hush of golden trails.

No figure waits in hidden glade,
No lover carved in light or shade —
Only wind that calls her name,
Only leaves that know her flame.

Her hands are maps of sacred fire,
Her voice, the bell of her own choir.
She needs no echo to feel whole —
She is the lantern, the flame, the soul.

She stops where the sun splits through the trees,
A brush of warmth, a quiet breeze.
And in that hush, so fiercely still…
She smiles —
for she has always been
the thrill.

✍🏽By: - WIN VENTURA