From roots of toil her story climbs,
Through whispered dreams and fleeting chimes.
Bronze branches hold her hopes in bloom,
Where ashes fade and stars make room.

The floor once swept, the chores once done,
Now gleam beneath the midnight sun.
A godmother’s spark, a carriage bright—
Dreams take form in silver light.

The clock strikes twelve—its echo calls,
As glass and fate entwine through halls.
A prince kneels low, the slipper gleams,
A love fulfilled from fragile dreams.

At last they rise, hand clasped in grace,
Their joy eternal, time’s embrace.
And at the top, for all to see—
A book lies open: destiny.