She, who is said to be in the eye of the beholder,
I see you in every scenic place that I look.
Like the angel and the devil on my shoulders,
It is my common bleakness which you took.
Beauty, the painter of countless blank canvases;
Bright colors still slowly trickling down your brush;
Paint over me so that I may never think I am less,
For it is your graceful strokes that transform me with no rush.
Beauty, responsible for painting the night sky with stars;
Little twinkling lights that scatter the heavens;
You entice the people to look from a land so far;
Each and every one tells of its unique impressions.
She, who is said to be imperfectly perfect,
Who gives sweet fragrance to all the flowers in the land.
Who stops short when the thorns come out unchecked,
The imperfections you have only have admiration to demand.
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