The World was so threadbare in that white room
where tulips and sunflowers bloomed.
There was mystery and magic more
than books or wizards or locked doors.
Myth never was so real
as in the relics that sealed
us each to the other in whispered words.
Captured in your esoteric, enigmatic eyes
are memories seasoned and wise,
breathing youngness into antiquity
and today into every futurity.
Every captivating ode and love refrain
lives in our long gaze.
History is in our hands today,
in our happy tears, in our eyes,
our kisses, and long sighs.
Poesy has won its way;
with love that is like Yahweh:
was and is and will be.

Now, Bone of my Bone,
in yellow afternoon, we have known
the desired and doubted impossibility
that, oh Flesh of my Flesh, two are one.
Should that ever be not so, may one become none.