ANGELS
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say within thine own deep sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use
If thous couldst answer, 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Providing his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art told,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
by William Shakespeare Sonnet No.2
My Angel Babies
Naomi, Kris, Maryam and Leila
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