Autumn colours painted on her lips, a passionate finger painting carried softly around her cheeks. Almost like a beautiful accident on the canvas she shies away, and takes out her brush and strokes gently like a harpist.

Her eyes are a wonderful mystique of luscious greens sprouting joyously between her curly hair, rising up as grape vines from the bottom of her elegant neckline, awaiting for below, the fruit to be pressed into warm wine.

Her skirt, the veil of the crescent moon glimmering above the dark ocean of her tights that grip her like a broken fence that surrounds wild roses.
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