How could I describe you?
Will it be easy to do!
Should I dress in the cloth of sculptor?
Hold my chisel and engrave a miniature?
Should I pretend to be an artist to scribble
And manage to draw your picture?
I am not a sculptor,
Neither an artist, nor a writer
Had God endowed me
the gift of writing skills,
I would have skilfully peeled out
The shell of letters,
and disseminated pearls
Similar to what your lips contain,
I would have molded the language,
Spoken out the letters,
Stirred the expressions,
Stimulated the puns,
and voiced you out a flesh and blood poem
To escort me in my ups and downs,
To recite you a sacred version
Along my daily prayers!
I will try, in words,
To return the good gesture,
But obsessed by the fear of failure,
Yes, a lot of motives have indeed
Combined into one desire,
The desire to have described you
And live with you, in you,
But, again, I am afraid
Yes, afraid my ink will dry up!
Dare I to count your countless graces:
She is unrivalled in beauty,
Her face as bright as the moon,
Her teeth are glittering like snow,
Her smile looks like the early morning dew,
Her eye- brows, well-set, half - crescent,
Her cheeks as pink as rose,
Her pose defeats the priest's pose.
Black - haired
Ball- like eyes
Behold! the arresting bosom
Make not only me,
But, by common consent, would say,
She is the perfect piece of creation.
Wednesday, February 24, 2021