Under the shadow of the ancient moon and whispering stars

Under the shadow of the ancient moon and whispering stars, Through the valley of thoughts where our secrets sway, Thus begins the translucent tale, hidden beneath the veil of the evening, A saga of longing, woven into the woman's heart, that wandering pearl. The woman, this enigma who does not bow to fate, Watches as love unravels and is stitched together, moment by moment, Like leaves that dance in rhythm with the wind that carries them, And in the lap of silence, a murmur of melancholy gently rolls them. Allowing herself to be bounded, not by the grass of endless fields, But by the enclosed courtyard of the heart, where the echo of desires lies, An ancient fortress, with walls lined by hope and sadness, Where the sea of remembrances breaks its waves with noise, on the cliffs of regret. Men, in search of embers to ignite the flames of longing, Encounter the woman with an abyssal heart, who keeps the mysteries, With the calmness of waiting, with a gentleness shaded by silence and dreams, Like the sun that rests in the arms of the sky, unhurried. Their eyes, mirrors of the nights that tirelessly weave fate, Bear in their souls the echoes of a love, gentle and endless, A serenity that does not ask, does not claim, does not fight on the paths of fate, A murmur that simply is, within the quiet rhythm of the beating heart. And so perhaps the heart may finally comprehend, the secret of love, Not the blind search, nor the devouring desire, but the simple existence, Women, robed in grace and finesse, discern this teaching, That in true connection, the essence is not to have, but simply to be loved.