Shall I compare her life to jaunts of fare? If royal roots on barren soil lie crude, when cracks erupt, do heirs, to night time’s glare in dusk of shadows cast, become quite prude? This czar in rule, erects a garden realm, as terrace plots in brick with shrubs and trees. Do flowers grow in heaps beneath the helm where slaves turn screws and soak up to their knees? Yet, scholars say this wonder’s width and strength comes from a poet’s pen, and water path, with pumps, and hydro chains, too vast in length. The era buffs recall this ancient math.
Did queen find favor in the desert soil? Her marvel’s toil becomes Iraq in spoil.
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