Forged.

She was born in April,

diamond-bright,

a child shaped by pressure,

as if the earth conspired

to teach her how brilliance

is carved out of weight.

Her life carries echoes

of everything she loves.

The lotus,

rooted in the dark,

mud clasping its stem,

yet rising unsoiled,

offering petals

to the morning.

The ginkgo,

older than cities,

its green fans spread wide

even after the firestorms,

the last tree standing

where silence fell.

The cicada,

buried in dirt for years,

clawing upward,

just to sing so loud

the heat itself pauses to listen.

The obsidian,

born of fire,

the earth’s molten grief

hardened into glass,

dark, gleaming,

sharp enough to remember pain.

The stars,

collapsed into themselves,

shouldered by gravity,

yet lighting the night

so that wanderers may find

their way home.

And she—

she is each of them:

lotus rising,

ginkgo enduring,

cicada singing,

obsidian burning,

diamond shining,

star guiding.

April’s daughter—

proof that beauty is never fragile,

only forged.