Neither has she cheeks like hyperbolic roses,

Nor does she possess curves like rivers in valleys.

She might not have tulips on her lips,

Nor hair like a shower of darkness.

O’ Shakespeare, still I love her.


Neither did she grow up in snowy mountains,

Nor was she ever a fairy child.

She might not hold bosoms like 'Lucy',

Nor thaw in the drops of rain.

O’ Wordsworth, still I love her.


Too far from metaphor or hyperbole,

She is beautiful like a divine truth.

Might not be clothed in earthly gold,

But she always melts me with her golden soul.

I am proud to love her.


Gleams of pure guilelessness shine on her,

Pleasantness and candidness fragrance her.

But no poetic words can make her complete —

Only the word “woman” can define her.

O’ Gawd, I love her.

tales of silence