Wind and the Beloved Fire

The wind, a saintly breath, a spirit free,

Like a patient sage, it roams the land.

It holds no claim, no desperate plea,

Just quiet grace held in an open hand.

Then, from the ash, a truth begins to bloom:

The holy fire, a burning, restless light.

A captive yearning to escape its room,

It fights its way through long and sleepless night.

The wind, instead of dousing, draws in close,

And whispers truths the fire's heart can hear.

 A gentle guide who knows the path he chose,

He fans the flame to burn away its fear.

They twist as one, a dance both fierce and deep,

A love that asks no less than everything.

Like rivers merging from a mountain steep,

They rise as one on wild and sacred wing.

The fire wails through the hollowed, aching dark,

A child crying for a long-lost name,

But the wind, with kindness, guards the fragile spark,

And gives the pain permission to remain.

The fire burns through lies we swore were true,

Like letters we kept but never dared to read—

Old memories, false selves, and love half-blue—

It lights them all and sets the spirit freed.

The wind does not protect from every scar,

A friend who stays but lets you break,

It lets the fire rage to where the raw truths are,

And waits with you until the soul can wake.

So let love be this holy, rising gale—

A purging force that strips away the old.

Like a sculptor breaking stone to lift the veil,

It burns to leave a story to be told.