CheyRain

I am historic.

My features have survived centuries,

Wars, Famines, and Death.

My hair, the distinct red curls,

Traveled to me through my family line.

My great grandmother gave this to me,

This artifact she brought with her from Ireland.

My full lips were a gift from my mother,

Gifted to her by her mother.

My curves the same.

My eyes however are the most historic, to me.

Neither my parents nor any of my grandparents bear them.

They are remnants of some long forgotten ancestor

Who did who knows what.

Perhaps my green gaze once gazed upon ancient kings,

Or upon dying heroes.

I am historic.

My features have survived centuries,

Plagues, Murders, and Poverty.