My gipsy lover
Drowsy as a soft flower
Nodding in her howdah
She reluctantly follows her cameleer
Decamped away and the stars
is their guider.
As a princess with her maid
of honour
When she kneels to ground
You would smell a good odor
Often she wears a silken head
cover
And the jewels being as stars
sewn in zipper
Her cheeks flash and thunder
Like a sky is about to shower
Her tall is as a lofty tower
Magnetic is her slumber
In her eyes, there is a magic
power
When she talks to me
When she gazes at me
Her eyes fill up with
pleasure
At every hour
She hums as a tuner
Most days of winter
In front of her crimson tent
She often spins her spindle as
a spider
A slim girl of a good temper
but at summer
She is quiet heroically but sober
And always she goes to the
river
To swim and pamper
Whereto would I say?
To whom am I being humorer?
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