She Belongs to the King
- Sommer
- Jul 7, 2025
- 1 min read
She is not waiting.
She is not lost.
She is not half of anything.
She walks with the wind
The sun knows her by name.
The earth softens for her feet.
She has made peace with silence,
and drinks from wells no man can find.
She does not bend to flattery.
She is not moved by noise.
Her joy is ancient
not loud, but deep.
Every thread of her robe
was spun from firelight and prayer.
Her gold is not for beauty,
but for memory.
Her eyes do not plead.
They reflect.
She was never searching for a throne.
She belongs to the King.
He writes her name in water,
in stars,
in the soft breath between heartbeats.
He calls her daughter.
He calls her radiant.
He calls her mine.
And she walks
because she knows
Who walks beside her.
