Nummular

Underneath the lighter hues, her hair resembles the darkest bark of the grand sapote tree. She traveled many days to get here, days beleaguered by rain and thunder, and other hardships of the road. But she never stopped. Sometimes sprinting, sometimes walking; sometimes skipping, sometimes crawling; always she was determined to get here. She knew that though the path seemed circular, she was constantly moving forward. She listened only to the wind at night, the wise old wind who told her stories. She slept merely to regain her strength, so that she might continue on. She dreamt only of this place. Now she has arrived, and at long last she may taste the fruit. Its sticky sweet juices will run down her chin and coat her neck and tingle on her skin, but that matters not, for she has arrived, and at long last she may taste the fruit.