Nira’s Tale Of Love: II

Pompous humanity favoured her;

Born poor in real grace and sober.

Shaken leaves hanging fruits and unearthed root;

The face of ecstasy makes her moot.

Mirrored in water; even moon mourned in the night;

Her wet busy hairs lazily set a fright.

Shinning fading ripples of memory,

Forged her swimming to bank unseen.

Her low brow shone like a lost pearl;

Neither I nor you can touch her curl.