In shadows of the ruins, where beauty turned to blight, A sculpted maiden wandered, with tresses wreathed in night. Medusa, scorned by gods, with serpents for her crown, Knew only fear and silence, a terror draped in gown.
Then came a wandering minstrel, sightless, led by song, His voice, a gentle echo, that righted every wrong. He sang of love and starlight, of whispered summer rain, A melody that soothed her, a balm for ancient pain.
He spoke not of her visage, nor serpents cold and stark, But of the music in her soul, that lit the lingering dark. He told her tales of heroes, of battles fought and won, And in his gentle praises, a fragile trust begun.
With trembling hand, she touched him, a whisper soft and shy, And though he could not see her, love bloomed behind his eye. For in his blindness, beauty wasn't marred or missed, He felt her warmth, her kindness, a love he had not kissed.
No longer did he wander, a solitary shell, But found his solace in her touch, a love his heart could tell. And though the world recoiled from her, a visage to despise, In his embrace, she found a love that banished all her lies.
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