Her eyes were dusk, her laughter monsoon’s flame—  
the night still trembles when it breathes her name.  

A crescent’s curve, her brow—yet storms conspired  
to drown the moonlit vows that bore her name.  

The jasmine wept where her cold shadow fell,  
the stars grew mute, too frail to frame her name.  

She wore the dawn like silk, then split its seams,  
left autumn’s rot where spring once claimed her name.  

Her lips, a scripture written in red wine—  
the young man kneels, but godless rites maim her name.  

The river Tennessee, once choked with roses,  
now floats the shards of mirrors shamed by her name.  

O Zephyr, stitch the sky with threads of ash—  
no elegy can crown or cage or tame her name.