Sinful, I touched. Baked in sun, her skin was the color of honey. She smelled of the morning mist. A smell the color of blue. Deep blue as of seas.She was beautiful.Peculiarly so. An esoteric beauty as in the lines of Kafka. Her lips were the color of rising sun.Tempting. Her hair was short. Only as long as to touch her shoulder. Shades of gold over the natural black. She wore the colorful dress of her land.The dress in which they danced Danced for nine nights.Like the Radha and Krishna of their folklores. The river roared inside.Beneath and above. She sang a lay.Crooning.In the throes of love. Rising up and down, the pitch was feverish. As if the river Sabarmati was at the edge of inundation. But never running as strongly nor as deeply as my love for her. It rushed forth.To wet the garden burning like fire. We flew together. Like the kites that the people of her land so loved . Her laughter was like the morning bells of the incensed temple. A different dance in the ninth night. After all it was a festival to celebrate love. Gods shall forgive the enactment.