She is the beauty, we all define
the one that always, invade my mind
Starless night cannot compare
as she is the moon, so young and dare
The garden rose, envy her lips
as it was red, as blood dips
every dance begs her pace
and every song, wants her grace
Yes she is! the song unsung
but always heard, as if the bells had rung
her poise is pure, unto her roots
at even fall, she is the muse
the ways she laughs is a masterpiece
her eyes wrinkle and her cheeks go red
to ignore such art is such a bliss
and to lose sight of her, is a dread
The sun has kissed and graced her face
as the wind had held her cold embrace
They could do all! I envy such elements
and wish their place
But a boy in love can only dream so much
and never dare to be in her touch
So now I weep in this barren paper
as I write every poem about her
But let it be known that she is not a beauty
because she is the beauty herself
never ever call her pretty
as she is the beauty in this world itself
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