Saison-du-Aires

There’s something melancholic about the Aires season; melancholic yet beautiful. Spring is about love and all but perhaps late spring is not. Perhaps late spring speaks of something else. It reminds of love, and love gone bad, love withered.

Maybe it urges to remember the love, love-unnamed, love that perhaps never evolved to a bond. Perhaps it tells to remember, against all odds.

It’s sad, yet it’s beautiful; it’s love, how can it not be?

Love is pious, forever.

"...যদি পড়িয়া মনে
ছলোছলো জল নাই দেখা দেয় নয়নকোণে--

তবু মনে রেখো।"

🍂🍂🍂