She prayed with hoops that caught the sun,
A crown of light, a battle won.
Her hands, like petals, pressed in grace—
A warrior’s calm, a mother’s face.
Around her heart, six hands entwine,
Each shade a story, bold design.
A ribbon blooms where pain once lay,
A pink reminder: we don’t fade.
We rise in circles, not alone,
Each clasped hand a stepping stone.
From diagnosis to divine,
We speak in healing, line by line.
So think pink, but live it loud—
In every whisper, wear it proud.
For beauty born through fire and fight
Is not a scar—it is the light.