Her eyes —
like verses from an ancient ghazal,
whisper secrets
the moon never dared to tell.
Her smile —
a crescent drawn
between dusk and dream,
melting sorrows
like morning sun on dew.
Her hair —
long, dark rivers of night,
where stars come
to lose their light.
Her voice —
a veena in prayer,
each note
a tender flame of desire.
Her walk —
as if poetry
found feet and wandered,
leaving fragrance
in the silence behind.
Her skin —
the hush of jasmine in bloom,
a golden hush
the day would envy.
She doesn’t just appear —
she arrives,
like monsoon on parched earth,
like first snow
on waiting pines.
When she looks at me —
time forgets to move.
Even my breath waits,
as if to let hers
lead the way.
Oh, she is not just beauty —
she is its meaning.
And I —
a silent pilgrim
to the temple
of her presence.
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