A man walks alone at dusk,
Through snow,
Through mud,
Through water,
Through wind.

A woman,
Her child in her arms,
Has sworn once more
Never to swallow—
Not the stone
She carries,
Not the blood
From her womb,
Not the pieces
Ripped from her body,
From leg to leg,
From heart to soul.
The weight she bears—
A weary lie,
A gravity carved
From sorrow.

And the man meets his lies,
While the woman flees
From her truths.
For in a story,
To doubt every truth
Is the greatest salvation.

And in a story,
To believe every lie
Is the truest freedom.

She shivers in the cold
And sings her song,
Her cracked voice
Reaching for an echo—
A hand to hold her tune.

The man stands firm, unshaken,
No mercy
For a single note
That leaves her lips.
His mind drifts elsewhere,
Composing endless melodies
That will never be heard.

Love is madness—
The first sight,
The last glance,
And knowing.
To love is to live
Every moment,
The beginning,
The end.
To love is to embrace
Every ending,
Every beginning,
Every shattered breath
Seeping through the cracks
Of every thought,
Of every loneliness.