And you say,
My poetry
Is beautiful:
A tree
That bears
Delicious,
Heavenly fruit
From paradise.
Maybe,
That is true.
But you are
The sacred soil
That embraces
Its roots
With your heart,
The seeds
Of magic
That make
It grow,
The rain
That makes
Its fruit
Full of honey,
Of amber,
Of wine.
And when
You look
At it
With your deep,
Wide eyes,
Like both
Nile River,
And vast,
Blue skies,
It becomes
As charming
As your eyes,
As fresh
As your cheeks,
As sweet
As your lips.
And you say,
My poetry
Is beautiful.
Maybe,
It is true.
But you are
My true beauty,
My fruit,
My pretty,
Poetry tree.