Amid the dance of rhythm's song,

Her form, in grace, does truly belong,

Her eyes speak where words are wrong,

Feet kiss the gravel, as she dances along.

Tresses unfurl, in the breeze they sway,

Twirls of tulle, like a poem, finds its way,

In the streets, in the light's soft ray,

She paints an art for heaven's embrace.

Sometime in early 2021. Can't remember anymore.

All Nara has done with her twenty-something years of life is dance. From dawn till dusk, her days flowed like a river of rhythm. She danced through the bustling streets, of the old town, where cobblestones still whispered tales of yesteryears. Each step on the gravel was a soft kiss, a gentle promise to the streets she loved. 

In the heart , she danced. Her movements were poetry, a silent song that filled the twilight with grace. Her eyes, deep and expressive, spoke volumes of stories that words could never capture. Her tresses unfurled in the evening breeze, swaying like wisps of dreams, blending with the twirls of her delicate dress. 

The tulle spun and shimmered in the soft glow of streetlights, creating a dance that was both timeless and fleeting. With every graceful turn, she painted a scene for the heavens, a canvas of nostalgia and beauty that the stars watched in silent awe. It was a dance for no one and everyone; she herself a living poem.