She

She was not the glowing cinder, remnant of a fire,

She was the tall flames, that leapt with desire.



She was not a feather, that glided gently, too light,

She preferred to swiftly cut through the clouds, like a paper kite.



She was not the tender wavelets, which caressed the sand,

She was the mighty torrent, which overwhelmed the land.



She was not the sweet breeze of a summer afternoon,

She was the storm, which pulled high tides towards the moon.



She bravely conceals healed wounds in her heart,

Hiding the scars of love is also an art.