Sunday, October 26, 2014

Why historians can't write poetry ...

You are my age when you were born,
But you're too bright to be forlorn.
The world's still there for you to Be;
 You are my light to history.

image from

When when-yourself you are so sweet,
You shape the place where hearts can meet.
So do accept my humble plea:
Forget about melancholy.

For me the stars guide but for you
The morning means your life is new.
Your crystal dew evokes the day
That makes all darkness fade away.

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