On this day, 9 January, in 1952 a shooting star was born. It soared to the skies touching each and every person lucky to walk its path. Its shine was too intense to remain. Lucky was every person who bathed in its light. I was the luckiest of all. The ninth of January remains the day that made my happiness and bliss a reality. My star still guides me, soothing the pain of separation. Happy birthday my love!
Happy birthday my love.
So many birthdays we celebrated side by side, our hands joined, our lips touching.
For ten years now, we are celebrating side by side, joined beyond life and fate.
My present, as always, is my eternal love best expressed in Shakespeare Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
(...)
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
No comments:
Post a Comment