Wilst thou allow, sweet lady,
This poet's adoration to flow as a river,
Celebrating thy celestial beauty and charm?
Or paint a picture, perhaps,
A portrait so perfect,
Of a new Mona Lisa?

Or wilst thou perhaps allow him
To hold thy hands to his eyes
In gratitude to providence for the fortune
Of thy presence, thy grace, and friendship?

For above so slender and tender a
Vinelike waist dost arise,
The supreme blossom that is your heart.
A fresh camellia more rare,
Than all the blossoms of the
Gardens of Babylon.

Thy swanlike neck dost hold,
Thy face so precious to behold.
Not even a warm harvest moon
Comes even close in radiance.
A radiance enveloped by
Gossamer gold and silver,
That is your hair.

The moon fades to shadow
Beneath your eyes like stars,
Stars like diamonds of brilliance.
From these diamonds do shine
Rainbow hues dark and bright,
The deepest blues of despair,
Crimson red passion,
And peace, green like leaves,
Fluttering in the breeze.

Ah, the poet could lie basking
In this sunshine forever,
But is drawn to those lovely lips
That are rubies set in pearls.
But nay, no rubies could compare
To sweet cherries supreme
Whose essence is the sweetness
Of nectar, of ambrosia of the Gods.

Wouldst thou not grant this poet a touch,
A kiss, of thy sweet essence,
That would awaken the sleeping prince,
To bring him to life, to awakening,
To know joy that knows no bounds,
Forever in your dear presence?

Raja Bhat
April 28, 1998

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