I love her azure-blue, big eyes
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and those golden tresses;
wise, and with love that never dies
or wavers, she blesses.
Behind those intelligent eyes
she ponders and listens,
as I surmise she wears the ties
of saintliness that glistens.
With yellow tresses dressed in waves,
spooled and weaved in sage;
she braves the hate that enslaves,
defying its evil rage.
Sage, wise and just, she's elegant,
lovely and passionate;
she's defiant of Pride, the giant
of sins (which God must hate).
Alone, I feel the world's undone
as she's no longer real;--
that she's fiction I only bemoan,
for she's "la femme ideal."