ANAIA

They call her "black sheep"-the rebellious one,
a name that tastes like wine and gunpowder,
born from the echo of a wild bullet
that refuses to find a target,
choosing instead to pierce only the sky.

She is a spark-a wild bullet breaking through the hush of dawn, untamed, unclaimed, refusing the aim of hands that wish to hold her still,
a heartbeat that races faster than fear.

She blooms where no gardener dares to kneel,
a wildflower with roots tangled in rebellion,
drinking rain as if it were freedom itself,
ignoring fences and neatly kept rows,
her petals laughing at the thought of cages.

The world hands her a map and a compass,
but she tosses them into the river,
for She is the journey without a road,
a shot fired not to kill but to run-a heartbeat that ricochets through mountains.

She knows responsibility is a leash,
a rope that strangles the wind in her hair,
so she runs with storms instead of clocks,
letting sunsets be her only deadline,
and the moon is her only ruler.

And if you try to hold her,
you will find only the scent of rain
and the fading hum of a bullet's song,
for Anaia is the flower that grows
even in the cracks of the prison wall.