To say the colour of your face
resembles the dewy morning rose
is simply far from the truth-
what rose can on one's heart grow?

Comparing your eyes to the stars
that bejewel the lonesome night
is an insult to that sparkly pair
not to be eclisped by the sunlight.

Your skin is not white as marble
or snow with untrodden virginity-
the lush summer of a blooming life
lies within you with warm vitality.

To say I love you is not enough,
just as it is impossible to count
the blessings life has to bestow-
what without you amount to naught.
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