But love, though boundless, seeks to grow —
Not in light alone, but the undertow.
For what is whole must be made wise,
And what is joined must still baptize.
They walked through meadows veiled in gold,
Their hands like threads no time could hold.
Yet in their hearts, a silence stirred,
Not void — but shadow, an undefined word.
For deep within her radiant grace,
She saw a flicker — not his face,
But lifetimes buried, old and raw,
A wound that time had failed to thaw.
She turned to him with tearful eyes:
“Do you not know these ancient cries?
The wars we waged when love was pride,
The vows we broke, the ways we lied?”
He stood like stone in the desert night,
A soul once blind, now bearing sight.
“Yes,” he said, “I see them too —
The fire we danced, the blood we drew.”
In one another, they saw the truth:
Not only saints, but fallen youth.
Not only grace, but also grief —
And in that pain, a strange relief.
They wept — not just for what had been,
But for each self they’d never seen.
The faces worn, the names long gone,
The lifetimes lost to dusk and dawn.
And in that grief, a flame arose,
A trial, the sacred always knows:
To love not only what is pure,
But every scar one must endure.
The test had come — not from above,
But from the roots of deeper love:
Could they hold what burned and broke?
And love each other through the smoke?
She stayed. He stayed. No word, they said.
They only breathed — not fled, not fled.
Their shadows circled, bowed, and passed,
And something deeper bloomed at last.
For in the mirror of their pain,
They saw each other whole again —
Not perfect souls, but weathered true,
With eyes that knew, and still they knew.
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