The threads she wears breathe of skies,
casting mirrors in my eyes;
each fold a hymn to her frame,
each hue a whispered acclaim.
Braids once crowned her morning light,
now fall like rain through the night;
straightened winds kiss down her spine,
braided days left in decline.
Silk and shadow kiss her skin,
modest veils yet fierce within;
a siren cloaked in pure grace,
dancing past the marketplace.
Gilded hems kiss marble floors,
pearled with breath from secret stores;
every laced and stitched delight,
sings of storms she tames in flight.
While she dons the artisan's song,
I tread simple roads along;
my woven dust holds its charm,
threadbare but with open arms.
Each shimmer sewn in her gaze,
blends the moment into praise;
the city's pulse sways and bends,
cloaked within her moving trends.
She bends summer into sleeves,
weaves autumn into her greaves;
the seasons bow to her will,
carried in her breathing still.
No jewel could outshine her glow,
no scepter could rule her flow;
the market gasps in her sway,
the dusk blushes where she lay.
Her laughter, stitched to the seams,
turns old paths into new dreams;
while I, in my quiet thread,
walk beside the crownless head.
Thus she blooms on woven wings,
beyond the names of all things;
clad in hours, cloth, flame, and grace,
a queen adrift through time's lace.