The sickly light of the sun was a harbinger
Of the night. The rays cast no shadows, no warmth, as if
Saddened by the sights of nature’s pulses dying, withering,
Crinkling like dry raisins, the sun lost its vigour.
If it could see the sick, old lady in the sanitized hospital bed
Her face all aglow as she wrote an epistle of love
For her husband, who lay in the room next to hers,
Knowing well that those contorted alphabets
Would help him defeat death,
It would have set with renewed strength.
The sun needs to remember
That out of its love it preserves the germs of nature,
And like the old lady, it must realize
The potency of those three words
That she wrote at the end:
‘Amor Vincit Omnia’.