Why I love Byron?
Byron, the resplendent star in the heavens of world’s literature, continuously provokes my amor but lunatically illusionary mentality that I would like to marry him if I were a buxom, attractive girl living in his years, which doesn’t denote my twisted self actually. But I just can’t help it, thinking such craziness every time his poetries confront me. And the rationale is quite simple.
First, he’s bloody beautiful. Fairly dubious as his over-embellished paintings are, his handsomeness stays palpable matter-of-factly if clear enough remain your eyes. Curly jetty hair sprouts out like a fuzzy cute sheep; serene eyesight surmounted by the shiny forehead polished by ubiquitous ideology of independence or heart-melting romance rays out lights full of stamina straight afar; perfectly shaped nose and nostrils inhale and exhale in a poetic and lyric rhythm; that angular chin keeps me reminding of the lions sharing their grandeur of lords. What a man ! Secondly, the rhymes he coos into my ears mellowly incite my fall-in-love-as-if-I-were-a-maid mind. The very first time I read his poems and in my ears whispered the lines, ‘Zoe uml; mou sas agapo’, and ‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies’, I got flipped and from ears to ears out of coyness grinned I and pounding has been my heart and literally stabbed by the arrows shot by Cupid was every space of me ever since I was too intoxicated by that amorous rhetoric and vows of love to keep conscious , which throws something enigmatic to my contemplation how Lady France – once she was the girlfriend of Byron – could be determined with raging insistence to be recreant and dump Byron’s fabulous beauty and romantic stanzas. Third, most principally, it’s what’s laying deep inside him that surreptitiously clenched my attention and invading me. The elegance, grandeur, exaltation, and forever honour are etched on his spirit and will, the pursuit of FREEDOM! He was the holy angel on poetries but on wars the horrendous devil, piercing through the enemies of feudalism, prancing on the battlefields, rampaging on corpse in Greece. On “ ‘Tis Day He Completed His Thirty-six Year’, he wrote down lines of exasperation against enemies, rhymes that lurked the tenacity to annihilate demonic iniquity. Though the day after that he died of some vital disease, he didn’t live or fight to die, but died to live and fight in the revolution of Greece ! In reminiscence of Byron’s splendid honour, the mighty and valiant Greek made every strenuous effort to whip the feudalism with the holy FREEDOM into demise. Eventually, they made it! His thoughts of freedom and romanticism made him seem as a handful, wayward to remain among lords and politicians. Nevertheless, such will would live permanently, surviving all evil, in the whole world! What a recalcitrant and persistent man!
Reasons above constitute my love of Byron. I will be bearing all those he said and pondered to rectify my flaws in mind. He is the model I set, the sacred aim I run after and the ultimate icon I wish to be.
