Warmer than being alive,
there is a flame no breath can claim
a quiet pulse beneath all names,
where fear dissolves and time stands still.
We walk as bodies made of hours,
counting days like borrowed light,
yet something deeper softly burns
beyond the reach of wrong or right.
Not in the heartbeat, nor the skin,
but in the space we cannot hold
a truth that glows without a form,
a warmth that never can grow old.
