What is love but a flame in the marrow,
A torch that burns the soul to ash,
Yet leaves it whole, reshaped in shadow,
A phoenix rising from its own past?

It is the tide that swallows the shore,
Relentless, tender, breaking bone.
A thief of reason, a gift of war,
A kingdom conquered yet never owned.

And death? The quiet reaper’s breath,
A frost that silences the fire.
It shatters clocks, untethers flesh,
The final chord of the soul’s lyre.

It is the gate that love must cross,
A darkened veil, a lover’s scream.
It tears the threads, yet stitches loss,
Binding life to some eternal dream.

Then liberty—oh fleeting bird,
Whose wings beat skies of endless blue.
It is the cry of the unheard,
A storm that scatters chains in two.

It is the sun no hand can hold,
The aching promise of open skies.
Yet even the free can turn to cold,
When freedom blinds, when love denies.

Do they not meet, these sacred three?
Love, death, and liberty entwined.
For love sets hearts and bodies free,
Yet love enslaves; it binds, confines.

And liberty, a fierce bright star,
May demand of love its cruelest price.
While death, the ferryman, waits afar,
Counting coins of tears and sacrifice.

Yet in their dance, we find the truth,
A tragic waltz of joy and pain.
For love will burn, and death will soothe,
And liberty will loosen the chain.

Together they carve the path we tread,
With bleeding hands and hearts that yearn.
For to live is to love, to love is to wed,
Both freedom’s kiss and death’s return.