In the mehfil's hush of ittar and rose,
A Baiji sways where the sitar flows.
Her ghungroo sings like a flute in the rain,
Each mujra a spell, a coveting chain.
Whispers of muslin caress her skin,
Glowing softly as the moon drifts in.
Her kohl-lined eyes, brackish dark skies,
Hide secrets where passion lies.
Her anklets sing with dusky grace,
As thumri bends like a river's embrace.
Gems and pearls shimmer bright,
A stimulant of longing through the night.
She's but a poem in heaven's name,
A courtesan of time, a regal flame.
Sensual, sultry, all that persists—
History hushed her, yet none can resist.