In the golden lands where the sun embraces the savannah and the mountains don purple at dusk, there lived a woman whose beauty was sung by the winds themselves. She was called the Queen, not because she wore a crown of gold or ruled over a kingdom of stone, but because her soul radiated a light that could eclipse the stars. Her laughter was a melody that soothed storms, and her eyes were two deep lakes reflecting the dreams of men and women across the continent.
 
From the shores of the Atlantic to the coasts of the Indian Ocean, villages whispered her name like a prayer. The elders said she was born of a desert breath and a tear from the moon, that her skin bore the glow of midday sand and the gentleness of the African night. But the Queen was more than beauty: she was wisdom. She understood the language of baobabs, listened to the confessions of rivers, and her hands, slender and strong, could heal invisible wounds.
 
One day, a stranger came from distant lands, a man whose eyes were as cold as mountain winters. He had heard of her and wanted to possess her, as one possesses a treasure. He offered her diamonds, gold-embroidered fabrics, and hollow promises like empty seashells. But the Queen smiled and, with a slow gesture, pointed to the horizon:
 
« Look, » she said. « My wealth is there, in the songs of children, in the dance of the elders by the evening flames, in the rice that grows and the millet that ripens. How could I trade that for what shines only for a time? »
 
Offended, the stranger tried to take her by trickery, then by force. But each time he reached out, a golden mist enveloped him, leaving him alone, facing his own reflection, poorer than when he came. For the Queen was protected by more than her beauty: she was the keeper of ancient stories, those tales that bind the living to their ancestors.
 
Years passed. The Queen grew old, and her beauty changed, as the light of day changes. Her hair turned silver like the nights of the full moon, and though her step slowed, the village children still followed her, eager for her stories. One evening, as the sky blazed with red and gold, she sat at the foot of the great kapok tree, where the elders gathered. She told them one last story, of a woman who had learned that true royalty is not in admiring glances, but in the love we sow like seeds in the wind.
 
When she closed her eyes for the last time, it was not tears that fell, but wildflowers, sprouting where her footsteps had touched the earth. And to this day, when the wind blows just before dawn, they say you can still hear her laughter, light, carried on the wings of migratory birds.