I guess your sight hasn’t been trained to appreciate the visions one can find in the looking-glass of an infant. The rounded light of the sun dancing on clouds bringing to mind the rarefied origins of life’s precious water; that beautiful light reflected in the rivulets of snot cascading down her noble countenance.

The determined gaze she fixes upon the world, paying no mind to the sticky spitty droplet of food clinging to the precipice of her chin — for the ancient chore of sustenance, though it blights her countrymen’s every thought in the days of hunger, is of no consequence to she who has seen the truth of destiny.

The stoic jowls which frame this prophet’s visage bulge in defiance above the snowy purity of her cardigan, like the immortal granite mountains of her homeland tower o’er windswept plains upon which man does gruelling battle with beast.

Her own crown of glory appears as a titian cap sparkling with golden swirls of joy and beneficent reflections of righteousness. The humble rings in her ears and prosaic stains down her front can do nothing to attenuate the magnificence of that hat.