The zephyrs run rampant from the heavy
clouds, one that the balcony Beauty fully
embraces.
Clad in her yearning garments, a dress of
snow silk-satin with a thigh- high slit and
a frilled silk-hem.
Whose arms are raised towards
Winter's melody-
The zephyr's caress ever so gentle,
her dress flutters like a dove's wing in delight,
stroking her slim feet,
her flushing heels-
It makes briefly escaping being enwombed
by the shades of her room; the anti-chamber
of her heart's greatest desire,
where many tears are shed.
a maid born of the mild moon-
Kourê.
The Sun at its zenith pales in comparison to
her beauty.
Her face, sonnet sweet-
Her voice, heaven's hymn-
Her lashes, argent's flutter-
Her eyes, cerulean haunts-
Her body, fragrant; a slender willow-
Her hair, silver-aurorian blaze, held up
by a star-studded parrot's clip.
Snow bejewels her divine lids, down to those
rosette buds that make her lips.
Despite it all, melancholy has a grip her
features-
She is one who pays little to earthly riches,
for it provides comfort in slivers
Thoughts of flowers rest far from the altars
of her mind, for her mind is clouded by
the thoughts of him-
He who she hopes to see and hold once more.
As he gave her word that he would return
from his journey, leaving her in the palace;
his hand pulling the black gates.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
The zephyrs run rampant from the heavy
clouds, one that the balcony Beauty fully
embraces.
Clad in her yearning garments, a dress of
snow silk-satin with a thigh- high slit and
a frilled silk-hem.
Whose arms are raised towards
Winter's melody-
The zephyr's caress ever so gentle,
her dress flutters like a dove's wing in delight,
stroking her slim feet,
her flushing heels-
It makes briefly escaping being enwombed
by the shades of her room; the anti-chamber
of her heart's greatest desire,
where many tears are shed.
a maid born of the mild moon-
Kourê.
The Sun at its zenith pales in comparison to
her beauty.
Her face, sonnet sweet-
Her voice, heaven's hymn-
Her lashes, argent's flutter-
Her eyes, cerulean haunts-
Her body, fragrant; a slender willow-
Her hair, silver-aurorian blaze, held up
by a star-studded parrot's clip.
Snow bejewels her divine lids, down to those
rosette buds that make her lips.
Despite it all, melancholy has a grip her
features-
She is one who pays little to earthly riches,
for it provides comfort in slivers
Thoughts of flowers rest far from the altars
of her mind, for her mind is clouded by
the thoughts of him-
He who she hopes to see and hold once more.
As he gave her word that he would return
from his journey, leaving her in the palace;
his hand pulling the black gates.
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