Silver age Painting

In the quiet grace of twilight’s embrace, A woman stands, silver in her hair, The stories of years etched in her face, Her beauty deepened by the life she bears. Her age is not a veil of lost delight, But a crown of wisdom, glowing bright, A testament to strength, to love, to fight, In every wrinkle, in every quiet night. She wears her years like lingerie in black, Not a shroud but a seductive grace, Whispers of youth upon her back, A daring charm, a time’s embrace. Each silver strand, a whisper of the moon, Dancing in the night, soft and soon, Reflecting the elegance of every June, Her beauty timeless, like an ancient tune. In black lingerie, she claims her fire, An echo of the past, a present’s desire, Each moment lived, each heart’s aspire, A symphony of life, a soul’s choir. Her age, a silver cloak of pride, Not a shade, but a gleaming tide, A woman’s essence, deep and wide, In the silver age, where dreams abide.