When a woman matures, the world often forgets her right to be loved,
Yet, like fruit, her sweetness lies in the ripeness of her soul.
She stands as a queen, her love a precious gift—
Offered only to hearts that truly see her worth.
A woman is a tender plant; in the hands of love, she blooms,
Rooted deep in her femininity, a sea of mysteries—
Unfathomable to those unskilled in its tides,
For her depths can cradle or consume.
She is silent poetry, her intentions veiled,
A muse for the poet who dares to unravel her verses.
Like dew, she graces the earth with quiet strength,
Calm yet storm-bound, fierce yet fragile.
In her wild eyes, magic brews,
A sorceress weaving spells of allure.
She is an Arab enchantress, a Greek goddess,
Her smile a radiant sun commanding celestial orbits.
With age, she gathers the wisdom of all her yesterdays—
A lover when her heart is given,
A girl in her tears, generous in her joy.
She reigns as queen and dances as princess,
Her chemistry a sacred enigma,
Known only to the hearts brave enough to love her truly.
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