You dream on wings, celestial in flight with the garb of an angel. You muse of exceeding passion. You vulnerable font of love, you nectar of savouring taste, you metaphor of garlanded prose, you poem of ecstasy, you ribbed oxymoron of love’s fiesta, you danseuse of twilight robes, you morn’s paean of hope, you serenading tinsel of joy, you carnival of aesthetics, you whispers of a calypso, you fount of eclectic passion, you nirvana of aesthesis, you camaraderie of chocolate wings, you Narcissus of an oasis of symphony, in you I place my joy’s heart.
Java apple lying in a cluster, and evoking a poem of delight. Fruit is lying in noisy, juicy passion. Fruit sings a carnival of songs. Immobile fruit is a song of love. There is a poetry of hope, a mellifluous rhythm of prose. Fruit is an ornament of aesthetics. There is beauty strewn all around. There is an oasis in the garden of love. There is a passionate feeling of savoury taste. There is a microscopic opulence. There is an anthem of love. There is a feeling of the carnivalesque.