By JH Sayyar
O sculpted columns, soft with silken grace,
Where passion rests and poetry begins,
The moonlight lingers on thy sacred place,
And stirs the blood with fire beneath the skin
The temple doors of love, half-closed, half-wide,
Invite the gaze, yet guard the soul within,
Each curve a hush where dreams abide,
Each step a pulse that draws my spirit in.
Not marble fair, nor meadow richly spread
Could match the warmth thy strength conceals,
For on thy thighs my aching thoughts are fed,
Where every touch the breath of truth reveals
So let the world be hushed in awe and sighs,
At beauty borne between thy perfect thighs
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