ギャラリー

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The Table, the Shawl, and Her Grace

A table of oak, steadfast and worn,
Its edges kissed by years well-born.
It waits in silence, its surface bare,
Until she comes, beyond compare.

A shawl of velvet, crimson and gold,
Spills like a river, soft and bold.
Its folds embrace the wooden plane,
A quiet stage for beauty’s reign.

And there she rests, her form divine,
A radiant muse, a fleeting sign.
Her hands, like whispers, trace the thread,
While thoughts unspoken crown her head.

The shawl drapes lightly, a lover’s care,
Framing the glow of her flowing hair.
Its hues reflect her inner light,
A subtle flame in the soft twilight.

The table stands, a sentinel still,
Honoring her with quiet will.
For in this space, her beauty stays,
A timeless hymn, a poet’s praise.

No words disturb this sacred view,
The world fades out; she is the truth.
The table, the shawl, and her soul’s art,
A trinity bound to stir the heart.

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Lenttile　ｒ

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Lenttile　ｐ

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Lenttile　ｌ

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Lenttile　ｍ

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Reflections in Midnight Lace

Shrouded in shadows, she stands in grace,
Black lace tracing her body’s embrace.
The mirror holds her in its quiet gaze,
A silhouette wrapped in night’s soft haze.

Her curves whisper secrets the dark can’t keep,
A gentle tempest, awake from sleep.
Eyes meet the glass, a world untold,
In her stare, the night turns bold.

Threads of silk, like whispers, entwine,
Marking the space between shadow and line.
She is the echo of midnight’s song,
A fleeting vision where hearts belong.

The mirror reflects, yet keeps her apart,
A woman, a shadow, and her hidden heart.
In the quiet, she claims her place,
Eternity bound in midnight lace.

Lenttile　ｋ