Her tresses strewn on meadows' emerald sheen.

Why feign delight, with notes of sourest hue?

Such doleful strains but summon sorrow's flood.

Does cherish, then, what truth do, ill construe?

Tongues, like swords, spill forth a crimson blood.

They pierce like darts or kindle hatred's flame,

Heaven's grace does bid you mend your ways.

Behold, fair Eve, nearby shore's soft lights proclaim,

In river's chant, their concord's lasting praise.

Nature's heart does favour those who tread

Her verdant ways, peach-hued skies attend.

To those who listen, her melody is spread,

Like fawn in summer, joy that knows no end.

With mirthful grace, she paints each sylvan scene,

Her tresses strewn on meadows' emerald sheen.

©Poet Affaq