The stars don't care what shade the night may wear,
They shine their light through any kind of air.
A mountain's strength is not in how it's hued,
But in the ancient spirit there renewed.
From porcelain pale to deep and midnight gold,
A million stories are within us told.
To mock the skin is to insult the hand,
That carved the wonders of this living land.
For every human is a work of art,
With rhythmic blood and a pulsating heart.
The surface is a curtain, thin and light,
Hiding the fires that burn within the night.
So let them talk of "dark" or talk of "fair,"
While you breathe deep the freedom of the air.
A mirror only shows a fleeting trace,
But talent is the glory of your face.
Your worth is written in the things you do,
The dreams you chase and how you stay so true.
For in the end, when every shadow dies,
The only thing that lasts is in your eyes.