Ashtami-born, but the face? Pure poetry

Born on Ashtami. Heavy soul. Moon caught between quiet breaths. Not made for easy paths. They carry silence and strength. Beauty grows in their shadows. Not loud. Not seeking light. It lingers, soft and strange. A face like old music. Unfamiliar, but somehow deeply known.

Ashtami holds a lunar pause. Time frozen between ebb and pull. These faces carry that stillness. Eyes quiet, but full. Features shaped by emotion. Presence deep, not obvious. Their beauty doesn’t announce itself. It waits, and then stays. A feeling, not a flash. Unspoken, but always near.

The Moon changes everything quietly. In Taurus, it brings calm warmth. In Cancer, a nurturing softness. But in Scorpio, it hides. Eyes darker, more secretive. Faces hold locked memories. Longing sits behind the gaze. You sense their quiet ache. Beauty with weight, not lightness.

Mars writes in sharper lines. High cheekbones, strong jaw, still mouth. There’s tension even in silence. Words that never leave lips. Energy coiled beneath stillness. When Venus softens that edge, beauty becomes magnetic and real. Seen and felt at once. Like fire wrapped in silk.

Saturn comes with slow grace. It marks the face with time. Nothing rushed, nothing wasted. Lines become stories, not flaws. They age like weathered stone. Quiet. Grounded. Full of dignity. Their beauty deepens, not fades. It becomes what time respects.

Rahu and Ketu confuse things. Rahu shines bright, too fast. Glamour with something missing beneath. Ketu strips all pretense away. Leaves raw, honest reflection behind. These faces don’t follow rules. They unsettle, yet captivate. Strange beauty, oddly unforgettable. Like dreams you half recall.

Ashtami-born never look simple. Their beauty carries feeling, not trend. Faces like emotional landscapes. Soft rains. Distant thunder. Bright skies. Each mood lives in them. Misunderstood often. Called cold, intense. But it’s depth, not distance. Feeling, not performance. Soul, not surface.

They age like unfolding books. Chapters written in quiet changes. Not always graceful. But honest. Their beauty grows roots with time. Not in youth, but becoming. In loss, growth, memory. In every forgotten version of self.

To see them is to feel. Not always comfort. But always something. Not made to be pretty. Made to be real. And in that realness—timeless.