Beauty and the Beast

Beauty and the Beast

In an old English manor, cold‑stone walls whisper tales,
A beauty fair as spring, with courage bright and still,
While in the shadowed corridors, a beast with heart that baffles,
Hides a soul that yearns to love, against the world’s cruel will.

She steps across the floor made of polished oak and grey,
Her hand to the beast’s, touching steel and scarred skin;
His eyes, a storm‑clouded hue, look out through a fortnight’s night,
Where‑fore his sorrow meets the grace of a heart that will.

Within the candlelit rooms, their laughter starts to grow,
They share a tale of dragons, a lilt of enchanted rhyme;
The beast learns that beauty’s worth not only thrones, but seeds—
The unspoken truth that love, unguarded, can undo the grime.

And so on a moonlit balcony, the fairy‑light reveals,
That the beast’s real shape is not of flesh alone;
With gentility, the castle’s lights stand still and shield,
Each echoing as if the moon‑pearl had turned stone into stone.

When the final day draws near, the candle’s flame glows bright,
The beast ascends to his princely stature, clothed all white,
For love’s own light, once ignited, turns monstrous fears to love—
And in that dawn where two lives entwine, true royalty is found.