Woman of spice.

A narrow lane,
a lane with not much vain.
As you enter that lane you'll find a corner,
a eccentric corner,
your eyes would burn,
you'll blink more.

Crush, mix and blend some,
put in in a bottle,
their savour isn't forgotten.

She loves what she does,
she spends hours,
she's a simple woman,
no lust,
her spices,
so many are the colour of rust,
the corner's alive but lies in the dust.

Simple woman,
locks tied behind,
Kohl lined eyes,
her face lightens when she smiles.

She's a woman of spices,
hours she spends with them,
savour,
the aromas,
the varied colours,
they blend and make love then create something new,
she's a magician on her own terms.
her conversation with her spices,
from them she has so much to learn.

To spice,
devoted is her life,
to them she's a loving wife,
she's a woman of spice,
this woman of spice,
spice is her life.