By JH Sayyar
When I compare my lady with a fairy,
Whose wings are woven of silver breeze,
I find such dreams as moonlit woods display
Fall pale before her grace and stately ease.
The fairies dance on dew and petal sweet,
With laughter light and eyes of mischief born,
But she, whose soul makes angels incomplete,
Outshines them all like sunlight shames morn
No elfin spell, no charm from forest deep,
Could match the music in her spoken word;
Her gaze awakens hearts long lost to sleep,
And in her silence, symphonies are heard.
Though fairies fade like stars at break of day,
My lady walks — and magic finds its way.
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