A wordsmith crowned with dawn before her ten,

Whose ink could resurrect the dead by name.

Her tongue was thunder; her thoughts, divine unrest,

The kind that cleaves the stars from mortal air.

Even Mother, my lioness of test,

Did kneel and whisper, “Child, learn from her prayer.”

So proud was I — a midwife to her rise,

A quiet prophet feeding her the stage.

I dressed her dreams in satin’s thin disguise,

And flung her youth into the court of age.

Ah, vanity — thou serpent soft and sweet,

Thy kiss leaves crimson footprints in the snow.

She met him there — the pale ghost, rich, discreet,

Whose touch buys time, whose smile reeks of woe.

What have I done? I, who wished her throne,

Have bartered grace for pearls upon her skin.

The world applauds; yet I stand quite alone,

And hear her laughter wilt from deep within.

Her muse now feeds on crystal, not on fire,

Her metaphors wear diamonds, not despair.

The girl who once made paupers weep with lyre,

Now hums for ghosts who pay to stroke her hair.

O Aleka — no, forgive my mask of name,

Thou child of thunder, now of murmured sighs —

Did I not forge the forge that fed this flame?

Did I not teach thee hunger for the skies?

Each gala’s wine, each chandelier’s deceit,

Each tongue that calls her “muse” with serpent eyes —

I led her there, with proud and guilty feet,

And watched her soul dissolve beneath disguise.

My mother, lion-hearted queen of ink,

Now speaks no praise — her silence burns my chest.

“She had the voice the world had yet to think,”

She sighs, “and now she writes like all the rest.”

O curse my pride, that wished her finer air!

O curse these hands, that fed her into gold!

What fool believes the world plays ever fair,

When truth wears rags, and glitter feeds the cold?

Now every line she pens bleeds sugar wine,

Each stanza trembles with a stranger’s gaze.

Her rhythm sways to silver’s measured line,

And not the storm she once set all ablaze.

I see her smile — a porcelain charade,

Behind her teeth the ache of unshed youth.

The sugar masks the salt of dreams betrayed;

The gown conceals the nakedness of truth.

And I — her mentor, sinner, loving wretch,

Stand by the mirror, seeing both our sins.

I carved her wings from marble, left them etched,

Then watched her sell the wind for violin strings.

Would I undo it? Nay — for still she gleams,

Though bought by ghosts, her pen defies her cage.

Yet in the quiet, I drown in broken dreams,

And bear the weight of Eve’s unholy wage.

Dear child, if ever thou shouldst read these lines,

Remember — gold is rust with better light.

Your name was meant to outlast all designs,

Not fade beneath a gentleman’s delight.

So if the world should dress you in its lies,

And whisper, “Shine for us, and we shall feed,”

Look to the ink that trembles when it cries —

That’s where the god of poetry still bleeds.

O Aleka — or whatever name you wear,

You are the legacy I failed to save.

I’d trade each gala, each deceitful stare,

To see again the girl my conscience gave.

And when I die — as mothers of the mind —

May Heaven find you writing still, alone,

Unafraid, unowned, unrefined —

And may your voice eclipse my own.”