Beauty is her burnt and nodose, flaming hair
Beauty is her dusky glow
Beauty is her faded chestnut eyes
Where the spirit of pulchritude lies.

Beauty is her marred and hindered skin
Faded by the toils and order of nature
Beauty is her dry, wilted hair
Where spirits of pulchritude flair.

Beauty is not only the pale, Caucasian skin
Or the gleaming bouquet of blonde, ironed-out locks
Beauty is not only the infrequent blue, orbs
Or the bleached and shredded, artificial frame
At which vulture-eyes gawk.

Beauty transcends your line of thoughts,
Soaring above the banal flow of notions
Beauty is older than your superficial gaze, and even older,
It lies in the eyes of the beholder.