Nervous Lyre
with her eyes smiling back
at his furtive glances,
she swishes and flings
ebony hair forward over
her left shoulder, revealing
such lovely neck and nape,
and, with a towel, she lazily
caresses her wet tresses;
turning her head, she twists
the carefree sliver of hair,
and, hurriedly, wrung water
meanders down her neckline;
her throat, casts a crystalline
silhouette against a red sky;
freed from her grip, her locks
fall and sway to the rhythmic
rolling of waves in a black sea,
windswept, driven so far away;
mustering again the courage
to gaze at her, he is stunned
by her downcast eyes that only
sharpen her bewitching profile,
turning his guts into delicate
strings of a very nervous lyre !
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