By JH Sayyar
Their glances dance like fireflies in night,
A flash, a flare, then gone behind a veil—
With teasing lips and eyes flirt with light,
They spin the air with charm sweet and frail.
A fan, a smile, a pause—a coy pretense,
Their words half-meaning, yet meaning full,
They toy with time, with touch, with sense,
And draw the soul with but a silken pull.
Yet in their games, a deeper truth may hide—
The power born of beauty, wit, and will;
Though hearts break where bright spirits bide,
They reign with grace the weaker cannot kill.
So praise the art, though wounds it oft begets:
Such coquette queens, none ever quite forgets.
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