Before the colors of freedom,
this young woman stands — both root and cry.
In the pot she holds her braided hair,
like seeds defying earth and fear,
for no regime can cover what grows from courage.

Her hand, stained red,
is no mark of surrender but of resistance,
the blood of those who fight without weapons,
the imprint of those who shout “enough”
through the voice of silence.

“Woman, Life, Freedom” — the three words that stir the wind,
that make both hair and conscience bloom,
that turn pain into seed,

and the seed into future.