07/06/2025
Today, the sun wears flowers in its hair,
July’s bright canvas, bold and rare—
For Frida’s spirit paints the sky
With colors that refuse to die.
Her brows, a bridge across her face,
Unbroken, fierce—a sacred space
Where pain and beauty, joy and strife,
Meet in the art that shaped her life.
She wore her wounds like woven thread,
And from her bed, her visions spread:
A garden grown from suffering’s seed,
A jungle lush with hope and need.
Her eyes, two lanterns in the night,
Lit up the world with stubborn light.
She showed us how to sing and bleed,
To love, to lose, to still believe.
So let us toast with marigolds,
With laughter, paint, and stories told—
To Frida, whose wild heart still roams,
Who made her pain a thousand homes.
Happy birthday, Frida—viva, still!
Your art, your fire, your iron will
Burn bright today, as candles glow—
The world remembers. We won’t let go.
