She is the sun, the princess of Agra.
Her radiance piercing me like a knife.
A ravishing charm of Cleopatra,
that clinches my din heart and virile life.

Why does it seem that we are far winnow?
I tally the days and wait endless hours.
For butterfly love is below zero.
We wish it flew wayward to wildflowers.

No! Maybe Papilio can make it,
the journey of a thousand mellow miles.
Then, I can steal Rose like a sly bandit.
And by nightfall my time will be worthwhile.

But only “six degrees of separation”
will make one plus one a clean equation.