And she looked to the rumbling sky,
And she listened to the angry wind,
Its symphony a ballad of fire.
Beautiful, she wanted to say,
But instinct knew it to be otherwise,
And the common folk knew it to be otherwise,
And her mother,
And all the mothers before her knew it to be otherwise.
So she dared not say it.
She dared not speak.
Never knowing true beauty.
Not in the kinks of her hair
Not in the bulk of her nose
Not in the hue of her brown, or the laces of her shoes.
She searched the eye of the beholder for beauty unmarked
but she found his pupils to be empty
And the optimist?
Not a single glass half full.

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