What could have brought this epitome of beauty?
Squirting at this corner of my cubicle,
Resting so percolate on my sofa and palm.
Hinging herself on her node,
With fine fragrance circulating through all I am,
Through its stretched-out bud.
Who could have broken this golden olive branch,
From this virgin tree of beauty for me?
Could it be the Eastern wave of luck or lust?
This is you,
Splashing these rare colors on my odd walls,
Satisfying me just by standing by her corner,
As if walking pass her is worse.