Many have tried and many have failed to describe the force of nature that is Serena Williams.
The 34-year-old tennis ace defeated Angelique Kerber to win her 22nd Grand Slam two days ago, to tie with another tennis great, Steffi Graf.
Serena Williams isn't an easy woman to deconstruct. To portray. To put in a box, or a mould.
For every trip downhill, for every bad patch, for every rough phase that Serena has been through, she has always made a jaw-dropping comeback.
You see, she rises. She rises. She rises.
This video tribute by BBC Sport where glimpses of Serena's journey - her blood, sweat, tears, and smiles - have been captured beautifully by Maya Angelou's liberating poem, I Rise.
It is but a condensed version, but it is enough to give you goosebumps.
This one's for all those who paid more attention to the sheer material of Serena's dress than her game at the Wimbledon. You could do with a few wise words, clearly.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
Edited by Blassy Boben