She walks with butterflies
All around her body,
And light shines upon her skin from head to toe.
It must be her,
Her serpentine beauty that beguiles my eyes.
O, love, it is as if roses were made from her lips.
See how, when she laughs, the sweetest petals bepaint her cheeks.
And as this fine maiden passes by,
A flower blooms wherever she treads her feet.
Tell me, how does she do it?
How does she make the Moon hang by the glow on her face?
All around her body,
And light shines upon her skin from head to toe.
It must be her,
Her serpentine beauty that beguiles my eyes.
O, love, it is as if roses were made from her lips.
See how, when she laughs, the sweetest petals bepaint her cheeks.
And as this fine maiden passes by,
A flower blooms wherever she treads her feet.
Tell me, how does she do it?
How does she make the Moon hang by the glow on her face?
How does she teach the stars to twinkle in the night?
Even her skin reflects a thousand moonbeams
While her eyes move the Sun to rise, and burn bright
O, how, love?
How does she capture light with her own light?
That in her absence or as when she frowns,
The universe would turn afoul
That all heavens, whether day or night,
Would weep the saddest woe
To unbridle her from such gloomy plight.
Yet the more I cannot tell
The thoughts that court her mind,
But they must be sweeter than the music of the nightingale
For no beauty as hers should hear a tinge of whisper
That can produce even the slightest ail.
But if her beauty is devoured
By the wiles of envious time,
The more praises I will give,
For her beauty shall for-ever live
In my verse, in my love, and in my rhyme.