She just turned twenty.
Her youthful face is sweet like candy.
She has big eyes, dark brown,
always smiling, always calm.
Her lips are shaped with gentle grace —
she draws attention with every step she takes.

She wants the world to discover,
with her notebook and pen — nothing else matters.

She just turned twenty.
She has no plans – time is plenty.
She is my daughter, and I feel something new:
a quiet envy of the freedom she moves through.

I wish, like her, to pack a bag
and leave without looking back.
Why am I not that age again?
Why my life all my power drained?

We may look similar,
we share the same birth scar —
but she has a whole life to live,
while I reflect on all I’ve lived.