To my eyes, mind, heart and
soul,
Her nose, a masculine one, is
tormenting;
Her lips, uneven, are
devastating;
Her lock, a thin plait, is
over whelming;
Her breasts, just a purse,
are hurling;
Her fingers, un-manicured,
are gambling;
Her bottom, not a convex, is
stirring.
No word, she uttered to
please,
Nor any deed conspicuous
either.
Calls answered but not one
made.
Letters received but not one
sent.
Yet so much passion in her is
visible.
Yet so much lust from her is
discerned.
She is not a beauty, still is
opium.
She is not feeding, still
sates.
She stands as a proof that
It is not woman’s beauty one
is after.
20.01.2001
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