In the garden of life, where each soul finds its place,
A girl blooms with grace, not confined to the race,
Of being the son her father sought,
But a daughter with battles of her own fought.
She's not the heir to a patriarchal throne,
Nor the shadow of a name, in a masculine tone,
She's the bearer of her own dreams, her own right,
A beacon that shines, brilliantly bright.
Her path is her own, a journey distinct,
Not a mere extension, or a familial link,
She's the rhythm in a world that often forgets,
The music of diversity, and the dance it begets.
She's not the 'not son', but the 'is her',
A narrative complete, without a refer,
To the son that was hoped for, but not born,
For she is the rose, amongst the thorn.
In her laughter, the echo of her own voice,
In her choices, the product of her own choice,
Not a path laid by the expectations of a son,
But a trail blazed under her own sun.
She's the dreamer, the doer, the thinker, the feeler,
Not a placeholder for a son, but a healer,
A creator of her destiny, a shaper of her fate,
Not a second option, or a twist of fate.
So here's to the girl, with her head held high,
Who knows her worth, and will never shy,
From being the person she's meant to be,
Not the son, but the daughter, proud and free.
