The first time she died:
Her wings withered, then fell;
Her petals shrivelled and dried.
Burnt herbs turned to embers, the colour of hell;
The flames slipped into her veins,
Eyes dulled to ash as her soul screamed in chains.
The first time she died:
Her flesh flaked to ash and dissolved in the air;
The cruel smoke consumed her pride.
Weakness held her in the reaper’s lair.
No strength, no glory—nothing left to fight.
The silence was thunderous: empty, yet tight.
The first time she died:
Feathers gripped embers, igniting her frame;
Death crept out from deep inside,
Murmuring spells, softly chanting her name.
She stilled—then her spirit took flight,
And from the black bloomed a blinding light.
The first time she died:
She shed the dark like a long-clinging skin.
She took what the world had always denied.
In death, she found life—and made freedom her kin.
The flames could not claim her spirit whole:
It danced through fire, untamed and bold.
The first time she died:
Life came to her on a platter of gold.
She rose from the ashes with light as her guide.
The embers engraved her, fearless and bold—
An enigma more radiant than ever seen,
Born from the heart of a brutal scene.
The first time she died:
She awoke in the arms of a nascent dawn.
All she’d once carried, she cast aside:
Pain, sorrow, bitterness—now gone.
She rose with vengeance for what was denied,
And shattered the chains all others had tied.
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