कार्मेल #7 (a new series for 2025)

Lo, yon maiden, fair yet meek,
Knows not the light her visage keeps.
The stars do whisper, soft and low,
Yet ne'er she heeds what they bestow.

Her step is light, as dawn’s embrace,
Yet sighs she oft in darksome space.
The rose doth bow where’er she treads,
Yet wist she not the grace she sheds.

Her voice is like the lark at morn,
That wakes the world when night is shorn.
Yet modest stands she, doubting still,
Her splendor veiled by fleeting will.

Would that she glimpsed through others’ sight,
Where beauty reigns in purest light!
The heavens weep to see her blind,
To all the charms her form doth bind.

The winds do whisper, hushed and sweet,
Of wonders where her soul doth meet.
Yet cast she down her gaze so low,
That ne’er the truth her heart doth know.

O fate, be kind and lift her eyes,
That she may know what never dies—
The light within, so bright, so true,
That all the world doth homage do.

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