the damp soil bears her scent,
lingering as she walks by;
the air is heavy with the lovers' sighs
which fall as she smiles.
the flowers tucked on her hair,
mogra most of the time,
the bees hum some strange tunes,
as they follow her all the while.
drops of pearls sparkle on her lips,
as she drinks from the fountain of love;
and many a hearts she has killed,
by her subtle coyish charms.
as she baths in the river
that flows into a chasm deep,
the angels secretly gaurd her,
while the water lilies 'tend her hair,
the fishes clean her olive skin.
as she sways through the feilds of corn,
with a sickle in her hand,
the poppies dance and swing,
and they say she is from queen Sheba's land.
the birds of the woods are her friends,
and they twitter along with her,
as she speaks , the cuckoo sings,
and all hearts miss a beat.
there is none
that remain untouched,
awed eyed they stare as she pass(es)
who she is?
no one knows,
some say
she is the lost 'highland lass'.
3 comments:
there's a Wordsworth in you Philo :) I long to be at the Scottish highs as I read this poem of yours :) lovely asusual
how the hell can the same person be from queen Sheeba's land, i.e., Ethiopia and also be a highland lass, i.e. from Scotland????
my dear mr.potato aka biswak,
people think she is from queen sheba's land,....and the whole poem is imaginary.
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