Neither her hair, let loose or held in plait,
Nor her frame -every true admirer’s bait,
Nor her presence that weaken even cast iron knees,
Nor her fragrance for which many a competing bee,
Nor her gaze aloof from a gallery of eyes,
But yet found mine in a questioning guise!
Nor her printed cloth that was condemned to veil
her ripe lips that would leave many verses in trail,
None as enchanting as that disarming smile,
but, none to release her*from her cloak’s guile.
Hours flew swiftest when her unveiled cheeks shone,
And time labored most when the drapes were done.
With a rumble in my heart I solemnly write,
Of my infected musings that has no balm in sight,
If the sweetest fruit were the most forbidden of all,
As a burglar in the sanctum, I shall stand tall.
*her smile
The ladies in the city have now started veiling their faces as they move about, and the poet can't help complaining. He ponders about why something so beautiful as her face should be hidden away from his admiring eyes. So much so, that he is urged to himself step ahead and unveil her face!
