And I still feel

You have walked forty years of love, and your body, a temple of beauty and scars, blooms anew like a secret garden, defying frost and oblivion. I look at you and still feel that tremor of the eternal, that suspended moment when the world surrendered, and your eyes captured mine, like nets of light cast upon my soul, binding me in an invisible embrace. Now your voice, soft yet resolute, carries the echo of days gone by, a song resounding like forgotten laughter woven in the folds of time, a present that inhabits every corner of my life, the sound of a joy gathered and never weary. Your hands, ancient as the first flame, shape the world in simple gestures. They cut, mix, and offer, composing delights to be savored, as though a single breath, a fragment, a flicker of warmth could awaken the familiar faces of others from winter's slumber. And perhaps it truly is enough— your invisible gift, to brush the darkness with the tender wing of a newly born joy. You stand there, steadfast and unyielding, against the weight of time, against the indifference of days. You give yourself wholly, without proclamations, like the dawn that arrives regardless, even if no one watches. Then, when your heart beats stronger, as if to release a joy long held, a thought surprises you, an insistent flash: “Why does this peace find me?” Because in the smile of the one who loves you, the Mystery reveals its face.