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Artist
She rises from violet flame,
a daughter of murmuring stars,
Soft gold trembling in her hands,
as if holding the night’s pulse.
A crescent leans to kiss her hair,
clouds swirl like painted hush;
Every shadow bows to her,
every light kneels in blush.
Oh, Bella Luna,
girl carved from quiet fire,
you are the place where night learns
how to become desire.