In shadowed hues her figure stands,
Unknown, unnamed by sculptor's hands.
Yet from her silence, petals rise,
A bloom beneath unspoken skies.
No crown, no tale etched in her face,
Still grace becomes her rooted place.
The world may pass, unsure, unwise,
But still she blossoms , still she tries.
A mystery dressed in softest light,
She bears her fruit beyond the night.
Though nameless, faceless, still she grows,
A living trust the canvas knows.
