She

In her enigma rests the pleasant
Teasing, like the wind playing
With her let-loose hair.
Always an attention but never
A bother.

Her hands do not seek, only an
Allusion in her kohl eyes
Entices you, like a driftwood
In the flooding stretch of the
Yellow river.

Oar not in this stretch, and the current
Would teach to you the language
Of her allusion.
A never treaded expanse you’ll be in
Where her hands would both
Seek and guide.


Her Language

Don’t hunt the lion but its pride,
Understand not that is
In the light.