One Walked Among the Muses

 The echo of her feet sound the beats
 Of monsoon's invitation.
 Thirst. The Earth's
 Impatience groans in exhilarated agony, and
 Untarnished soil moans to be trodden.
 Like the slow creeping moonlight 
 Embalming the horizon,
 Ethereal, the grace of her motion
 Intoxicates, and the ground in her path drifts,
 Into a timeless reverie.
 The white silk gently hugs her form,
 And a stream of honey drapes her shoulder.
 She turns her head, and a single rose,
 On the back of her neck, adorned
 In its lofty seat,
 Tells an unearthly tale to those who dare listen.
 The dying winter's last breath-
 That rejuvenating south wind-
 Desperate for another touch,
 Blows one last time,
 And permeating the air with a fragrance of poesy,
 Gently caresses a strand from over her eyes.
 The heavens rumble deep,
 As what unfathomable thought crosses her mind, 
 With a careless smile that litters a thousand poets.
 Unaware she walks, envy of the muses.
 And as the crashing waves pause to admire,
 Centuries die beneath her footsteps.

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