A poem about Moroccan women

Moroccan Woman

In the bustling medina, where tales unwind, There walks a woman, graceful and refined. Wrapped in vibrant silks, colors that entwine, A Moroccan beauty, a jewel divine.

Her eyes, like desert stars in the night, Hold secrets of ancient sands, burning bright. With every glance, a story takes flight, Whispering of adventures, bold and spontaneous.

She moves with the rhythm of Marrakech’s beat, In her steps, the essence of bazaars and street. With hennaed hands, and laughter so sweet, She weaves dreams in the tapestry of each greet.

In the souks, where spices dance in the air, She’s the fragrance of jasmine, beyond compare. Her voice, like a song, floats everywhere, Echoing tales of love, loss, and despair.

With mint tea in hand, under the desert sun, She’s the embodiment of tradition, the chosen one. A keeper of culture, her legacy spun, In the threads of time, her story began.

Oh, Moroccan woman, embodiment of grace, In your presence, the world finds its place. Your spirit, like the Sahara’s endless embrace, Forever enchants, leaving hearts to chase.