Amor Vincit Omnia 

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’.