She moves through colour

She begins in red
A pulse beneath silence,
A memory soaked in pigment before language had shape.
Soft corners hold breath

where beige meets space, drawing borders not to trap, but to whisper: This too is mine. she walks through the desert, barefoot in thought, a figure between doorways, watching time fold into sand.

Faces appear, some wide-eyed, others masked in steam. They do not speak- They remember.

A bloom of woman dissolves into pink, her body both vanishing and arriving in the hush between petals.

Nude and golden, she stands without defence, a witness to what can not be told.

Her city lives in fragments, rooftops and rust, dreams carried in scaffolds of forgotten warmth.

She rides- not to escape, but to claim the wind, her skin tuned to every blue mile of sky.

Even the forest has no need for voice. It leans into green, thick with the language of listening.

And in the crosswalk, strangers pass, silent in their separate lives, but together for one holy heartbeat.