To my eyes, mind, heart and soul,
Her nose, a masculine one, is tormenting;
Her lips, uneven, are devastating;
Her lock, a thin plait, is over whelming;
Her breasts, just a purse, are hurling;
Her fingers, un-manicured, are gambling;
Her bottom, not a convex, is stirring.
No word, she uttered to please,
Nor any deed conspicuous either.
Calls answered but not one made.
Letters received but not one sent.
Yet so much passion in her is visible.
Yet so much lust from her is discerned.
She is not a beauty, still is opium.
She is not feeding, still sates.
She stands as a proof that
It is not woman’s beauty one is after.
20.01.2001, Pmd
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