By JH Sayyar
My lady’s flying hair in cool air so free,
A banner caught upon the winds of fate,
It dances wild with grace and mystery,
Unfurling dreams no heart could replicate.
The sun, enraptured, gilds each silken thread,
As if Apollo’s light were drawn to you,
And even zephyrs pause in awe and dread,
Lest they disturb that golden flowing hue
It stirs the soul like harp strings on the breeze,
A flame that flickers soft yet burns so bright.
Each lock, a verse, each strand a whispered tease,
A storm of beauty loosed in morning light.
O wind, be kind—entwine her not too far,
For she, in flight, outshines the evening star.
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