In golden hue, the sun adorns the sky,
A color rare, a sight to make hearts sing.
But in this tale, it is not gold, but shy,
A random color, chosen by the ring.
A peacock struts, its feathers proudly spread,
A regal creature, beauty to behold.
But in this tale, it is not peacock’s tread,
A random animal, from tales of old.
A quill, once dipped in ink, now poised to write,
A tool of words, of stories yet untold.
But in this tale, it is not quill’s might,
A random object, with a secret hold.
Two men, their love, a flame that brightly burns,
Their hearts entwined, a bond that can’t be torn.
In Shakespeare’s time, their love would face concern,
But now, their love is celebrated, reborn.
For love knows not the bounds of time or place,
It blooms, transcending color, form, and race.
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