As the poet grew tired
Of what he had seen and
What he had known,
He turned to his garden

He picked the most beautiful,
Wild and strange flower.
A Jasmine; one rare
And unique piece of perfection

As he gazed endlessly
At this pure flower
He knew this was one,
One he could keep.

A rose in a garden of thorns
No beauty as equal to her
As the poet took care, of
The lovely flower

It changed into a human,
An extraordinary woman
With diamond eyes
And flawless looks

The poet grabbed her hand
Kissed her neck and said,
‘I am the poet and
You are my muse’