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Fear is the very pearl from which love is crafted.
It's only a natural gesture to fear,
The fleeting moment when we might lose all we hold dear,
Even as we relish their presence by our side,
Loving every symphonic movement in unison, close to us.
How natural it is to anticipate
That dark day of parting,
And how vulnerable foresight makes us,
So we touch them with even deeper gentleness,
Yet with a firmness that allows no escape
From the sole warm candor we are permitted to cling to tightly.
In a world where every union might be the last act,
We embrace all the more sorrowfully the shadow of the passing moment,
With the fear of that inevitable farewell leaping in our chest,
We tie every second with the promise that it shall not end.
And even in the fullness of a lit day,
A murky sense of loss lies in wait,
We engage in an enchanting and sad choreography,
Trembling hands binding other hands in the dance of remaining time.
Oh, how delicate is the tenderness with which we nurse hope,
Sowing every gesture with the care of one who carries a flame against the wind.
We hold fast to all those smiles, whispers, and touches,
They are our fragile treasure, the richness we hold close, hoping timidly.
But, let me tell you, this very fear is the pearl from which love is made,
And our heart is like a tempest-tossed vessel that shelters an ocean of precious trifles
With each beat playing with the possibility of loss,
And out of this fear grows, paradoxically, a greater love.
As if our days weave a delicate canvas,
Upon which we paint every fine emotion with quivering hands.
And in this canvas, dwelt by fears and tenderness,
A strength is hidden - the tenacity with which we cling to what is ephemeral.

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