She couldn't be a mortal, just simply born;
but truly a goddess, ignited, free from form.
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The day the ground met with her delicate toes
was the night the stars aligned in symmetrical rows.
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In dream, she dances and glides upon air.
Awake, she braids comets in the threads of her hair.
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My greetings seem hollowed, I am drifting afloat.
The language of fondness is a lump in my throat.
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Her outline is gleaming with a soft, vermilion luster.
Her eyes, subtle jasper, urges your core not to trust her.
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Not a staza, nor an epic can contain flawless grace,
or the yearning I feel when we are sharing this space.