She walks with dust upon her feet,

The mountains silent at her side,

A song unspoken on her lips,

A past too heavy to confide.

She gathers figs with calloused hands,

And dreams with eyes that seldom close,

She knows the weight of water jugs,

But not the luxury of repose.

She knits her days with thread of hope,

Each grain of couscous shaped by will,

No map, no guide, no shield but faith,

And yet—she climbs the same steep hill.

The world may call her poor, unseen,

But she is louder than they know.

Her silence holds the voice of fire,

Her stillness makes the future grow.

So if you see her on the path,

Don’t bow, don’t weep, don’t call her small—

She is the echo of a storm,

The one who dares to dream at all.

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