Women are mysterious they say. They are never fully understood by anyone which makes them special.
Yes, words are not to demean anyone but to highlight the beauty of the mystery women carry with themselves. A similar beautiful encounter is penned below.
She was a painter who saw it all.
Summer of Spain, two thousand and ten.
I see a painter sitting by the street,
Face so innocent, eyes so calm.
She makes painting of those who desire.
Each stroke has its own charm.
I see her eyes as hypnotic as they are,
Looking at children playing in the alley,
My table and her chair aren’t much far,
Her paintings aren’t anything less of a story.
Oh and there is a secret, she keeps to herself,
Known only to a few like myself,
What you see is unknown to her,
While her vision is the painting itself.