BENEATH THE BLOOM
At sixteen, I heard the tale of Qays the Madman.
I laughed as it was told, wondering,
How can one be so vulnerable of heart,
To let someone hold it carelessly,
Like a child clutching fragile glass?
"Grow up and see," they said,
"How life can turn meaningless
As wearing high heels for a hike."
So I grew, and the laughter faded,
A humbled fool that life had shaped.
For love became not just desire, but duty,
An orchard once wild now tended with care,
Pruned by the hands of endless giving,
Each act a vow, each harvest a prayer.
Love no longer burned—it illuminated,
Her name etched in my every breath,
Not as yearning, but as a promise kept.
And so, I loved her—not for myself,
But as one tends to the rising sun,
And bends to the earth to plant a seed,
Knowing the bloom may belong to another season.
And sometimes, that is enough.
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