At eighteen, her dreams are feathers, Soft wings learning how to fly. She dances with hope in open skies, A poem still writing itself, shy. Life is a road of laughter and light, Love is a spark, fragile and new — She loves with curiosity, not forever, Just learning what a heart can do. At twenty-five, she walks with purpose, A woman grown from yesterday’s girl. Building her life with steady hands, Chasing her place in a restless world. She seeks a man whose words are gentle, Whose heart is calm, whose dreams are true; Stability becomes her language, And love becomes a home she can run to. At thirty-five, she becomes a mountain, Shaped by storms she survived alone. Her steps are wiser, her heart deeper, She loves with roots, not stones. She wants a partner, not a boy, Someone steady, loyal, real — A man who understands her silence, And knows the weight of what she feels. At forty-five and onward still, She is a river flowing slow and deep. Peace is her favourite companion, Her soul a garden she chooses to keep. She has learned that love is quiet, A soft hand, a truthful word — Not fireworks in restless nights, But a gentle song her heart has heard. From eighteen to a hundred years, Her heart changes, grows, becomes art. Every age a different rhythm, Every season a different part. But always she is searching softly — Not for perfection, not for gold… But for a love that feels like safety, A place where her story can be told.