Poetry

Your lovely countenance is brighter
than that worn by the hot summer season,
your purity, your integrity is much whiter
than the lily that dwindles without reason.

At a time all lovely things withers away,
disintegrate, weather, with age are frail,
to change are set and nothing can stay,
even seasons change as if they ail,

over time rhyme, poetry is not in vogue,
death removes, memories go to oblivion
people are forgotten, are out of dialogue
and even the greatest with time are gone

but as long as there is love, constantly,
your sheer beauty, men will in women see.

[Reference: “Sonnet XVIII Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” by William Shakespeare.]