By Iain Muir
Hair the hues of blood and fire
Echoes the passion burning in her heart.
Wildfire: uncontained!
A bright and shining woman,
Child of liberty, unbound by any rule
She cares not to obey.

A face fit to start a war.
Cleopatra? Helen? Hags!
Their eyes could ne'er have burned so,
Their smiles had not such power to beguile.

A form Venus-designed to madden men:
Sculpted from the wind, poetry made flesh.
Da Vinci could not mould such limbs,
No panther e'er prowled with such predatory grace.

Fragile, vulnerable, intense, afraid.
Thinks with her heart, then with her mind.
Acts without thought of consequence,
Then trembles at troubles that may never come.

A vision of glittering silver:
Beads in her hair and glitter on her face,
Painted with the markings of a tribe of one.
She is freedom, running wild:
A shining torch, burning away the darkness of conformity.
Would that I could perish in that flame.
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