She was born at the beginning of seconds,
in the white hills, where borderless minds dance,
born of time, from dreams that whisper,
like murmurs of stars in the silent night.
She was born with the flight of birds,
so free, like a sigh that escapes,
without fears, distant as the echo in the mountain,
where the breeze caresses her face,
and the horizon opens like an infinite canvas.
She was born in the heights,
in the treetops that murmur secrets,
where sunlight filters in golden glimmers,
and the wind plays among the leaves like a mischievous child,
there, where dreams awaken in sweet melodies,
and majestic mountains greet her with reverence.
She was born in the mountains,
where that farmer converses with his dogs,
and butterflies, with wings of crystal,
dance in a waltz of vivid colors,
where a red petal gave life to a rose,
each thorn a memory, each scent a sigh.
She was born there, embraced by flames,
among thousands of dancing crows that whirl,
weaving shadows and light in an eternal ballet,
as if the universe conspired in her honor,
and the whole earth celebrated her arrival.
She is the echo of an ancestral song,
the essence of a fire that never goes out,
a whisper in the wind,
a heartbeat in the soul of the world,
a story that blooms in every corner,
where life and love are but a verse,
and time, a river that never stops flowing
