I’m weary of your winds,
soft whispers that promise fire,
then vanish in the hush of “just friends.”

You speak like a lover in the moonlight,
then vanish at dawn with your walls drawn high.
Yet when I smile at another flame,
your silence burns louder than words.

What is this dance you lead me in?
One step forward, two steps back,
your heart a maze I cannot read.

Am I a passing breeze in your garden,
or a root you dare not let grow?

Speak, Lily
not in riddles, not in sighs.
Tell me where I stand in your sky,
before I drift too far to return.

Me

The music soft, a gentle hum,
The morning light, just barely come.
Your cheek so warm, against my own,
A quiet peace, a seed is sown.

The music flows, a silver stream,
Reflecting dawn, a waking dream.
Your skin so close, a gentle touch,
Is this too much? I want so much.

The world outside can wait and see,
This perfect place, belongs to me.
The music plays, the sun climbs high,
With you beside me, I could fly.

A tiny hand lies cold in mine,
Too small, too still, no longer thine.
A silent room, a broken toy,
Where echoes haunt of stolen joy.

No breath, no laugh, no sleepy sigh,
Just hollow air, and tear-stained eye.

A howl of anguish splits the night,
A wounded soul bereft of light.
A broken prayer, a fractured word,
The silence answers, nothing heard.

The world collapses to this form,
A raging sea, a silent storm.
My heart, a drum that beats and breaks,
For every promise it can’t make.

A cry to heaven, raw and wild,
The desperate voice of father, child.
A question flung to merciless skies:
Why must the innocent close their eyes?

A father’s scream, a primal sound,
Where love and grief are iron-bound.
A soul undone, a spirit cleft,
A war already lost… to death.

Soft words fall like quiet rain,  
hearts bloom where hate has lain.  
Each syllable a golden thread,  
we weave light where darkness bled.  

Rich is he who speaks with care,  
sharing wealth that’s always rare.  
Kindness sown, the world will grow,  
a brighter path for all to know.

A spark, a glance, a whispered word,
A longing deep, a soul unstirred.
The everyday, the same old dance,
A love grown quiet, a fading chance.

But words like wine, a potent brew,
Can paint a world, exciting, new.
Of touch and taste, of skin on skin,
Where passion blooms, and lives within.

Not just a need, a simple claim,
But whispered secrets, a lover's game.
Desire unveiled, no longer shy,
A shared adventure, you and I.

The fire sleeps, it embers low,
****** whispers help it grow.
Imagination takes its flight,
And paints the darkness full of light.

So read aloud, let words take hold,
A story whispered, brave and bold.
For in that fire, rekindled bright,
A deeper passion finds its light.

A rhythm stirs, a whispered plea,
When hands entwined with you and me.
He dances, swift and light and free,
A language spoken, wild and glee.

Uncommon words, a vibrant hue,
His movements paint a canvas new.
From sheltered arm, a gentle shove,
He lifts me high, to realms above.

A fluffy cloud, a soft embrace,
Where sunbeams fade, and shadows chase.
And then, the heavens weep in tears,
Black rain descends, dispelling fears.

Within my eyes, the torrent falls,
A cleansing shower, soothing calls.
He carries me, a fragile thing,
Where joy and sorrow softly sing.

Through swirling mists, and skies so vast,
He holds me close, a cherished cast.
A whispered promise, soft and low,
Where love resides, and shadows flow.

Oh devil,
play your crooked song.
My cup was born empty
not for lack,
but for the thrill of being filled
by hands unclean.
You danced,
not in shadows,
but in candlelight and clinking glass.
You sang not sorrow,
but sweet sugar lies
dipped in honeyed brass.
I did not fall.
I followed.
The path was perfumed,
the rhythm too rich to refuse.
Sin, in satin slippers.
Wickedness, with wine on its lips.
Yahoo for me
I did not burn.
I became the fire.
I outshone the flame.

I need no steel to make them yield.
My pen’s the sword, my truth the shield.
I conquer in silence, in stanzas and cries,
And write what no tyrant can shackle or buy.

She gave me words I could not catch, a tongue of winds and waves, yet to her shape I long to bend, to her silence I am slave.

Celtic is her language,
and mine cannot reach her song. Her face became my tempest, my anger, sharp and strong.

Yet to that face I’d gladly kneel, a pilgrim at her shrine
but first my hands must learn her skin, and make her body mine.

Three women at the river’s edge,
bare feet digging into the cold,
playing that wicked game
hunting guilty pleasures,
dragging sin from her dark bed,
laughing loud, trembling wild
in the ruthless lap of lust.
Their hands don’t just touch
they carve borders into flesh and bone,
claiming, mapping,
finding fierce truths in each other’s fire.
Behind them, a desperate cry:
Don’t stop. Don’t ******* stop.
The river doesn’t care
she rages beneath their skin,
this Love they name a curse and blessing both,
the song tearing loose:
Oh my God, oh my God,
oh my ******* God
don’t stop, you savage witch, don’t.
**** all men and their chains.
The water shudders
bearing the heat of fevered bodies,
waves crash like a scream,
wild, sharp, relentless
******-waves breaking, breaking.
At the river’s ragged edge,
they spill their longing like blood
holy, savage, untouchable.
This is their cathedral,
their war-cry,
and no shadow anywhere
dares claim they weren’t here.
Love calls.
Love burns.
Love breaks everything.

My granddaughter and me
the best artists to ever be!
We make, we write, we draw wild things,
So strange and bold, with scribbled wings.
We paint the sun with purple glue,
And give the moon a mohawk too.
We turn the clouds into mashed potatoes,
And make giraffes wear sweet pink halos.
You might look once and raise your brow,
“Is that a dragon... or a cow?”
But we just laugh and say with glee:
“You don’t see it? That’s on you, not me!”
We’re the best and no need to boast
Of silliness, we make the most.
So when you see our crazy art,
Know it's made with love and heart.

The shoulders of your throne, so sit and cross yourselves.
Raise your head, above all earthly selves.
Pride shines bright upon your brow,
For humble hearts know little now.

This is my heart, I laid it down,
Upon the path of your renown.
If it should weep, or cry in pain,
Feel no sorrow, it will rise again.

Not pain it cries, but tenderness,
Beneath the feet that I confess,
Hold all my loyalty and grace.
I love the pride upon your face.

Advise me not to let it go,
Forbid such words, and watch it grow.
Each cell within me starts to hum,
When your approaching footsteps come.

Your walking here, an honored tread,
Deprive it not, or it is dead.
No mercy show to longing eyes,
A look, a smile, a subtle guise.

Walk onward, do not turn away,
For they will follow, come what may.
I fear for them, not for myself,
Your powerful steps, like precious wealth.

You are the Queen, so rule with might,
And take our loyalty as your right.
Without an army, you still reign,
Our hearts beseech you, ease our pain.

Torment us with your beauty's sting,
Know that denial deeper things.
Your judgment, fair or not, I crave,
Your sweet content is all I save.

Consult your heart, and only it,
Let love's own counsel be your wit.
The fairest roses bloom anew,
From every step you take, it's true.

Choose what you wish, a fragrant prize,
And give to me, before my eyes,
A single rose, however brief,
To cherish through my joy and grief.

The lover pampers, then withholds,
Demanding more than stories told.
My heart, in chains, I can't deny,
I call to him, he passes by.

And I amazed, my heart so strong,
Softens to him, although so wrong.
It endures, though free, it's true,
But it submits, only to you.

Don’t cry for me; I have only died in name:
I am still here, beside you, flame to flame.
My body rests: my soul moves near
so shed no more a grieving tear.
I am the snowflake that kisses your nose,
the frost that nibble-soft on sleeping toes.
I am the morning sun that wakes you light,
the star that keeps you from the night.
I am the rain that cools the thirsty earth,
the laughter that returns to give you mirth.
I am the bird that lifts its song on high,
the cloud that drifts across the open sky.
I am the thought that quietly threads your days.
Goodbye for now
I am with you, always.

I gave my coin, my honest hold,  
to claim the promise, not fool’s gold.  
No gift I seek, no mercy shown,  
just fair return for what I have sown.  

Not greed, but truth, in simple kind,  
deliver what was pledged, outlined.  
No silk-lined trap, no gilded air,  
just what is owed, in equal share.

Its skin a map of whispered, hidden tales,
A sphere of promise, filled with red delights,
Each seed a heartbeat, cradled in its flesh.
To slice it open is to know the truth
A rush of sweetness spills like tender dreams,
As crimson juice flows freely, a soft tide,
That mirrors love’s first warmth upon the tongue.
In every seed, the dusk of life unfolds,
A gentle womb of quiet, pulsing hope,
Reflecting strength in all its fragile grace,
A ruby treasure, born of light and dark.
So, Lily, cherish what the heart can hold,
For in this fruit, our sweetest fears reside.

Everyone has tasted it,
its fire, its hidden sweetness.

Wash it a thousand times,
boil it, roast it, grind it fine
still it clings, still it lingers on the tongue.

So it is with certain souls:
no kindness softens them,
no gentle word can turn their core.

Do not grieve.
Keep your flavor pure,
and let theirs be their own.

He entered the stable of kings,
thinking the nearness of the throne would crown him.
He wore the saddle of glory,
and tasted the grain of another’s destiny.

But the soul cannot be tricked by garments,
nor the heart by walls.
Essence breaks through every mask.

So when he opened his mouth,
the sound that leapt forth was not praise,
nor hymn, nor neigh of majesty
it was the cry of his own nature,
a bray echoing the secret:
“You are what you are.”

Red is the secret between us
the slow swell of lips,
the flush that betrays your longing
before your voice can speak.

It glows on your mouth,
smears on my skin,
a trace of hunger
that stains deeper than wine.

Red gathers where I touch you
******* tightening,
thighs trembling,
your *** darkening with heat.

Every drop, every blush,
every mark is a confession.
You write it on me with your body,
I read it with my tongue.

Red is not just seen
it is tasted,
it is swallowed,
it lingers between us
like breath,
like sin.

Beneath her gaze, the heavens stir.  
Each syllable, a glowing ember’s blur.  
She weaves the wind with quiet grace,  
Carves poetry in the moon's embrace.  

A witch’s son, her craft I see
A rose blushes with her decree.  
Her whispers, soft as dawn’s first light,  
Transform the stars to flames of night.

I am proud of the scar,
the stumble,
the body that taught me truth.

I do not polish myself
for anyone’s mirror.

No flattery leaves my tongue,
no false comfort from my hands.

I walk as I am
unbent,
unfinished,
unashamed.

Not wood or bone, but something root
Deep in the earth, a magic thing,
That makes the listening spirit sing.

Each note he plays, a hidden door,
To memories we knew before.
A happy laugh, a tear that fell,
Stories the heart remembers well.

The sound, it washes clean and bright,
Like sunbeams chasing away the night.
It calls to feelings, lost and found,
Safe in the flute's enchanted sound.

He plays it true, he plays it clear,
Wipes away all doubt and fear.
A simple song, a gentle breeze,
That rustles softly through the trees.

Let your own heart become the flute,
Let love and kindness bear their fruit.
Then all the world will understand,
The magic held within your hand.

My head called for my pen.  
To write of love’s sweet ache.  
But my soul turned inward gray.  
And found no flame to take.  

A silent room, a wordless plea.  
Poor me, poor me, poor me.

The rushing stream, it knows its bed,
The silent thought inside your head,
It needs no shout, no forceful plea,
Just patient steps for all to see.

The donkey grazed, then looked anew,
"The loudest boast is rarely true,
So listen close, and understand,
The quiet heart holds fertile land."

A sugared dream, forbidden sweet,
My heart enslaved, it skips its beat.
Her thighs, like silk, in shadows meet,
Unveiling fire, slow, discreet.
A molten jewel, her body glows,
A taste of dusk, where hunger grows.
Rosewater breath, a whispered crime,
A lemon’s bite through scented time.
Her pulse surrenders, soft, yet dire,
A secret feast, a tongue of fire.
Delicate ruin, velvet night,
Her ecstasy dissolves in bite.
This treasure rare, both wound and cure,
A pleasure savage, dark, obscure.
She melts on me, unholy rite
Devoured whole, my Turkish delight.

A shy rose smiles, a blush of dawn,
A whispered secret, softly drawn.
I, son of wood, with words so keen,
By witch-mother, a mystic scene.
A thousand whistles, sharp and clear,
To rouse the trees, dispelling fear.
And when I call, with voice so low,
The roses answer, soft and slow.
A tender love, a whispered sigh,
As petals bloom beneath the sky.
A silent dance, a gentle grace,
In nature's heart, a hidden space.
The morning dew, a diamond sheen,
Reflects the light, a perfect scene.
My witch-mother, with eyes so deep,
Her wisdom whispered, secrets to keep.
The wood awakes, a verdant hue,
As love and beauty, fresh and new.
The shy rose smiles, a blush of gold,
A story told, a tale unfolds.

A void resides within my soul,
No treasure to bestow, no role.
What I lack, I cannot prize,
My heart, a barren, empty guise.

No love I offer, cold and stark,
For love unreturned leaves a bitter mark.
A fool I was, a foolish plea,
To give and give, eternally.

Life's harsh lesson, etched in stone,
Kindness now, a path unknown.
For kindness given, unreturned,
Leaves wounds that fester, unreconciled.

And if you're late, my patience wanes,
No sorrow felt, no empathy strains.
Your shirt, half-open, a careless grace,
Reveals a world beyond this place.

A world where fleeting moments fly,
And love's true worth, we barely try
To grasp, to hold, to understand,
A fragile thing, across the land.

I learned his rhythm, step-for-step, To break no bond, to earn respect. Behind, he flees-an untamed ghost, Ahead, he strikes, his guard engrossed.

Beside, we tread the timbered lane, Two hearts entwined in wild refrain. No master, leash, nor tethered guide, Just wolf and I, the woods abide.

Not by rules or timelines,
not by others' silence or advice.
I will carry this grief as I must
slowly, fiercely, or quietly
but always in my own truth.

How can one breathe without you?  
The stars dim, the world falls still.  
A dreamless void where love once burned, Each step heavier than the last.  

Nadoush, I call, though silence stays.  
God, mend the paths we cannot see.  
A love unbroken, though time denies.  
I love you, always endlessly.

Desire burns through night’s deep shade.  
Tongues of heat lay silence bare.  
Each breath a prayer, untamed fire.  
In ecstasy, agony feels divine.  
Flesh whispers what words cannot.  
I am undone; I am reborn.  
Shivers stitch my body’s hymn.  
A wild hymn echoes creation’s core.

Eyes meet, shadows speak,  
questions coil in tender air,  
truth hides, sharp, unknown.  
Our silence—both wound and balm,  
bridging what we fear to say.

In twilight's soft and fading light,
When shadows grow and hide the day,
And night arrives, so dark and deep,
A lonely feeling starts to creep.

My love has been a mighty sea,
Through sunshine bright and stormy gales,
Through happy times and bitter tears,
I've loved you through all of my years.

But now I'm here, all on my own,
My heart feels empty, cold as stone,
I long for hands to hold me tight,
A friendly face in the darkest night.

To dance with you beneath the stars,
To leave behind all worldly scars,
To tell you things no one else knows,
And find in you where my heart goes.

Let's dance until the morning's here,
With laughter loud and joy so clear,
Let our two souls become as one,
Until the night is over and done.

The darkness calls, I feel the chill,
But in your arms, my fears stand still,
Oh, gentle friend, I long for you,
My delicate lover.
I miss you.

How on earth I end up with you
a question I bury in silence,
where answers decay.
How did I spend thirty-five minutes
trading my peace
for your poisoned lullaby?

How many times I should have left,
but stayed
each time a bruise
on the soul I pretend is whole.
Each moment,
a thread unraveling my name.

Deep purple sleep
where I float, numb,
ends nightmare.
Not with rest,
but with forgetting.

Thank God
for the wicked wake
the jolt, the break,
the moment truth
slices through the dream.
At last,
I breathe
alone.
Alive.

When you love, a strange thing starts,  
You wear new hearts, play different parts. A playful child, a sturdy friend,  
A comfort near, until the end.  

You laugh a laugh that is not yours,  
Explore new shores, unlock new doors. You see the world through borrowed eyes, Beneath new skies, full of surprise.

My lord, pluck out my eyes, for I have seen,
A world of dazzling light, a cruel, bright sheen.
My ears, deaf now, to all the melodies,
For I have listened to the serpent's lies.

I've sinned, my lord, and loved the gilded lie,
And hated truth, with a contemptuous sigh.
A vision fair, a wonderment of sight,
Her song, a siren, stealing all my light.

She sings, and I, am captive to the sound,
My soul adrift, upon a treacherous ground.
Quoth I, a fool, entranced by her sweet grace,
Lost in her beauty, in her alluring space.

So, pluck my eyes, and seal my listening ear,
For in this world, I fear, I cannot steer.
From truth's embrace, my heart has turned away,
And now I crave the darkness, come what may.

I am her *******, humble, soft, worn thin,
A silent witness to her hidden life.
I’ve known her body’s secrets, close and deep,
A second skin, I clung to flesh and bone.
I have tasted her sins, the bitter proof,
Felt the deep tremor, held the quake of thighs,
A vessel for unspoken, urgent needs,
The silent echoes of a hurried touch.
I have worn scents of nights that would shame saints,
Of raw desires and whispers in the dark,
The heavy perfume of a world unseen.
Each stain a story, etched into my cloth.
Now, press me closely to your patient ear,
And I will speak what only I have known.
My fabric holds the truth, a living scroll.
No hidden part of her escapes my grasp.
I will name every man, each grasping hand,
Every woman too, whose waiting lips did part,
And the precise hour, when they broke her open,
To spill her secrets, whispered in the night.
I hold the ledger of her pleasure, pain,
The hidden history within my weave,
and the very hour when her heart opened wide.

What Remains

Sometimes, it isn’t death that takes them
but something quieter, crueler.
We still see their face,
still hear their voice,
but the soul we loved has gone elsewhere.

No thunderclap of farewell,
just silence
where laughter used to live.
A dimming light,
a soft betrayal of warmth once constant.

They don’t vanish all at once.
They fall from us
in pieces.
A kindness gone here,
a tenderness gone there
until we’re holding a ghost
with a heartbeat.

We mourn them in secret,
while they walk beside us.
Not lost,
but no longer found.

And in the end,
what remains?
Only the name
echoing,
hollow
in the chambers of memory.

Sound the horn between our ribs,
let the skin split like banners in wind.
Your mouth is a blade, my tongue a spear, and every kiss is a clash of steel.

We charge, not across fields, but across sheets, drums pounding in our veins, armor shed, shields burned.

My hands grip your hips like soldiers clenching their last flag. I will not surrender.

Your nails carve into my back,
war-paint of blood and salt,
a map of victories.

We shout without words, a battle cry rising from throat to spine, breaking the silence like fire breaks night.
Every ****** a cannon,
every gasp a trumpet,
every cry a sword raised to the heavens.

And when we fall spent, conquered, breathless on the ground of each other’s chests, the war is not over.
It only waits, ready to rise again at the first whisper of your lips.

Do not poo-poo the ****, my friend,
it is nature’s truth from end to end.
A daily gift, a humble sign,
that all is working, all is fine.

Doctors may boast of pills and care,
but nothing speaks like what is down there.
A **** a day will keep them away,
a throne-room triumph, hip-hip hooray!

So lift your head, sit proud and true,
this sacred duty calls on you.
For in the flush, life’s proof does swoop:
behold the wisdom found in ****.

have a cup of coffee,
or play the fool for a while.

Either way,
you stay true to yourself and your knowing.
And that’s what really matters.

So stir your mood
like you stir your coffee
just the way you like it.

Enjoy.

My friend, take hence a letter to my dear,
Perchance he sees the weeping written clear.
Between the lines, let silent tears confess
A love that words alone could not express.

Tell him I’m lost, by longing overthrown,
My heart, from parting’s fire, is cracked to stone.
What good is distance? Shall we choose to part,
When all that’s good is living heart to heart?

I asked the night: “Have you not felt him near?
Did not his shadow stir your silence here?”
The night replied with tears upon his face:
“My patience, too, has waned in love’s embrace.”

The moon declared: “I basked in all you said,
But when you cease, my light itself is shed.”
O you who poured sweet love in every vein,
How shall I live in mask and cold refrain?

So when you reach him, let this message shine:
I am in love with his name is etched in mine.
My life was penned with hope and passion true,
And every breath I take still longs for you.

To “read” a painting is to listen with the eyes.
Begin with silence. Stand before it not as a judge, but as a guest and a stranger in a land of symbols and hues.
Describe what you see, as if describing a dream, you’re not sure you had: the colours, the lines, the tension, the flow. Is there chaos? Stillness? Invitation? Resistance?
Then ask the questions the paint does not answer:
Who made this, and when?
What storm or serenity shaped the artist’s hand?
What did the world look like when this pigment first touched canvas?
This is the visual pilgrimage:
from surface to structure, from brushstroke to breath.
You trace the grammar of form and the logic of light
how shadows fall, how space unfolds.
You seek the why beneath the what.
But to read a poem
Ah... to read a poem is to let it read you.
You bring all that you bring to painting attention, analysis, context.
But then you must offer something more:
your ache, your longing, your bruises, your silences.
You must bleed a little.
You must taste the honeyed poison of words too true to ignore.
Where a painting might say, “See me,”
a poem whispers, “Feel me and dare to be changed.”
In poetry, time distils.
A single line may carry a century.
A single word may resurrect a forgotten wound.
And so, the witch’s son says:
To read a painting is to walk through a doorway.
To read a poem is to fall through it, willingly
drunk on the sweet wine of beauty,
cut by the edge of truth.

I could have carved your name in fire,
Let bitterness reign as my choir,
But I lay down the sword,
For my heart has tired of war.
Love was never meant to wound
Yet it left me scarred, marooned.
Still, I refuse the poisoned cup,
I will not drink your shadow up.
The storm has passed, the ashes fall,
And I will rise beyond it all.
No vengeance can restore what’s gone,
But mercy makes the spirit strong.
So take the silence as my reply,
No curses hurled, no sharpened cry.
I choose the light the heavens give,
And in that grace
I learn to live.

Why do women act
as if pain belongs only to them?
As if heartbreak is their private wound,
their exclusive crown of thorns?
History is heavy with men’s bones,
men who howled when love was torn from them,
men who carried silence like a coffin,
men who shattered and no one wrote their names.
Love is no saint
it is a blind sword swinging wild,
splitting hearts without mercy,
and it does not stop to ask
if the blood is woman’s or man’s.
Pain has no gender.
Loss knows no favourite.
And love betrays us all.

The clock ticks wrong, yet time moves on, A promise shattered, never gone.

A silent scream, a muffled plea,
The ghosts you hide still shadow thee.

A twisted truth, a bitter lie,
It burns your throat, you cannot deny.

The questions hang, the answers thin,
A stain that lingers deep within.

To free oneself from boundless chains,  
Dismiss the weight of others’ reins.  
No judgment shapes the core you keep,  
Your dignity unfolds so deep.  

With kindness met, let kindness flow,  
A quiet strength to softly grow.  
Depart from scorn, let peace reside,  
Your worth is etched, not falsified.

**** Me With Your Beauty

Float your beauty,
your wild, aching sexiness
a storm in silk,
a sin wrapped in flesh.

**** me
with your pleasure,
with your wicked grace.
Burn me.
Don’t explain.
Don’t wait.

Just do it.
Undo me.
With what God gave you.

A glance,
a touch,
a breath that owns me.

**** me.
**** me
slowly,
completely
until I am nothing
but the echo
of your name.

Once, the word was a whisper
carved into a cave wall
by a man who saw lightning
and wanted to marry it.
He did not know grammar,
but he knew:
****.
It is the sound a soul makes
when it remembers it left the stove on
in a past life.
It is a sneeze of truth,
a hiccup of the cosmos,
a four-letter eclipse
of reason and restraint.
“****,” says the poet,
when words betray him.
“****,” says the scientist,
when atoms refuse to behave.
It is the punctuation of panic,
the jazz note in an otherwise silent scream,
the laugh-track of God.
It means everything
when you don’t mean anything,
and it means nothing
when you feel everything.
It is both
the crime
and the confession.
The knock, the door, the absence of door.
So how do you write it?
You don’t.
You exhale it through clenched teeth
as you fall in love with a mistake.
You etch it into the back of a napkin
after three whiskeys and a revelation.
You scream it into a pillow
until the pillow understands.
Then you kiss it.
And never speak of it again.

Not ink on paper, pale and neat,
But air alive with music sweet.
A scent of blooms in sunlit haze,
A floral song for all our days.

A gentle place, a warm embrace,
A haven found in time and space.
A longing felt, a need so deep,
Where weary hearts can softly sleep.

A world unfolds, a vibrant hue,
A magic waits, just for you.
Open your eyes, and let it be,
A wonder whispered, wild and free.

In the realm where senses softly play,
Lies a scent that whispers in the night,
A fragrance that in memory stays,
A woman's essence, pure and bright.

It's a blend of jasmine, rose, and grace,
A symphony of nature's finest art,
A perfume that time cannot erase,
A scent of a woman, from head to heart.

It lingers in the air, a gentle breeze,
A touch of elegance, a hint of allure,
A fragrance that whispers secrets, it seems,
A scent of a woman, forever pure.