Our love is not shouted, it is shown,
in soft whispers, in the calm of the day;
is not measured in pretty phrases, in the air,
but in glances that say it all,
in the sincere glow that caresses souls.
Because what is ours is not based on empty promises,
nor on words that are carried away by the wind;
it is woven in gestures, in furtive caresses,
in those moments stolen from time,
where the world stops and it's just us.
Our love needs no boast,
it is dressed in humility and simplicity;
it is a story written in the everyday,
in the aroma of coffee in the morning,
in the warmth of your hand in mine.
Such is our love,
a deep whisper,
a proof that what is essential
is felt, is lived,
it is not shouted, it is only shown.
