She walks beneath the lantern-lighted skies, A girl of nine with cheeks like morning dew. The village murmurs softly, “Such bright eyes— Too fair a face for one so young and true.”
The petals lean to catch her fleeting scent, And strangers pause as if they’ve seen a star. Yet beauty, early-born, is never spent Without a price for shining from afar.
She longs for messy braids and muddy feet, For scraped-up knees, not whispers in the breeze. But elders sigh, “Your grace is bittersweet— A lotus blooming far too fast to please.”
So may she find, behind the world’s soft gaze, The child she is, untouched by grown-up praise.
