There she stands
On the marble dais
Long limbs, smooth hands
Towards unseen shadows.
A perfect perfection
Of an artist’s sight,
In lean fingers,
Flat abdomen, entwined legs.
Epitome of lust,
Or perhaps too fiery passion she is
A woman not identified by history.
The sheen of bronze
With deep luster of age,
Skin flawless and smooth
Polished by lovers’ homage.
In that cathedral of art,
She has a corner,
A quiet one, a light one
With glass windows clashing on every edge.
When sun comes up
And when it goes down
A single ray falls on it,
Like a tribute, an entreaty
It graces and glows on the lady.
Nothing she wears
Except for her bronze skin,
In the form of love
At its eternal sin.
A face oval, slant eyes
And the lips that are parted
On the verge of a sigh
Of a deserted lovers touch,
Or a sensual dream
Which imprints much on heart.
The tendrils hanging on her face
Are too a shade of bronze ringlet
And the sun sparks in it a life
This comes after such wrenching
Immortalized by a lovers touch,
Even if he suffered such heart ache and death,
But he carved his paramour away.
On piece of metal,
Lifeless and dark
Epitome of grace
Of love of life
She stands there
A lover, a wife.
Watching her gives a pleasure heady,
Like making love,
Or loving a sin,
She returns the eerie
The mistress, the temptress
A lover’s dark lady.
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