When Love Spoke First

I was a thorn upon the breeze,

A brittle voice, a rustling sneeze

Of sorrow’s breath, of fire and drought—

But Love came softly, burned me out.

She plucked my pain, my prickled pride,

And planted peace where wrath would bide.

No sword could pierce what Love had sown,

For Love turned deserts into home.

She walked not fast, nor wore a crown,

But bore a smile to melt a frown.

She kissed the air, and trees would bloom,

The moon would rise, dispel all gloom.

She whispered truth, not screamed or fought—

Her war was won by loving thought.

She lit the candle in the cave,

And made a master from a slave.

O Love! You turned my wrath to song,

Made bitter years feel sweet and long.

You danced upon my burdened bones

And sang through all my sighs and moans.

What potion brews inside your flame,

That even grief forgets its name?

That even kings bow down in grace,

When Love reveals her tender face?

The fire that burned, you turned to light.

The flood became a bird in flight.

The scream became a lullaby.

The thorns became a velvet sky.

Love is no word—a world entire.

A gospel written not in fire,

But etched in flesh, in beating chests—

The pilgrim’s song, the martyr’s rest.

I’ve seen it, yes! The love of God—

It carved the earth with staff and rod.

It split the sea for broken men,

Then closed it on their fear again.

He gave His breath, He gave His name,

And asked for love, not wealth or fame.

He whispers in the soul’s own script:

"Be kind, be just, be passionate."

Yet man forgets. He builds his pride,

In towers cold, where tears can’t hide.

He sharpens words to cut the weak,

And mocks the gentle, shuns the meek.

He trades his brother for a coin,

And stabs the hand he once did join.

But Love—she weeps, and still returns,

And lights the lamp while cities burn.

The father’s love—a mountain’s spine—

He breaks and bends to build your shrine.

His silence speaks in thousand ways,

His labor turns the nights to days.

Yet we forget, and rarely see

The fortress he became for me.

His hands are cracked, his back is bowed—

Yet Love has never spoke so loud.

And Mother—ah! That timeless spell,

That womb where all the heavens dwell.

She bore the ache, the sleepless nights,

She cried when we achieved our heights.

She held our fears, then let us fly,

And kissed our wounds with lullaby.

Her love’s a sea with no known shore—

It flows, it floods, forevermore.

A sister’s love is soft and still,

A breeze that bends to match your will.

She braids your storms with golden thread,

And shields you when your hope has fled.

Her silence carries oceans deep,

Her anger stings but doesn’t keep.

She’s half your shadow, half your light—

The echo that still holds you tight.

And oh, a brother! Blood and stone,

He fights your fight as if his own.

He mocks you so the world won’t dare,

He stands behind you, always there.

He steals your food, then brings you bread,

He calls you names, then bows his head.

A strange, divine hypocrisy—

A war-born love, so wild and free.

And then, your partner—half divine,

Who knows your scars and makes them shine.

Their love is not a perfect stream,

But real, and raw, and built on dreams.

They see your worst, yet call you gold,

They mend the cracks you never told.

And in their arms, the stars make sense—

You are no more, but more immense.

But what of man? His love is frail.

He builds with hope, then lets it pale.

He speaks of peace with loaded hands,

He prays, yet breaks divine commands.

He judges those he’s never known,

He carves a throne from someone’s bones.

O man! What have you done with Love?

She weeps below, and waits above.

For you were made to love, not break—

To sing, not curse; to give, not take.

The world is not your ashtray, friend—

You weren’t designed to burn or bend.

You were a mirror for the skies,

You bore the stardust in your eyes.

Yet now you crawl, forget to shine,

And drink from hate as if it’s wine.

Return, O man! To what you were—

A keeper of the flame, not war.

A guardian of a garden sweet,

With mercy fastened to your feet.

Be like the river—deep and kind,

Be like the tree—of open mind.

Be like the stars—though far, they shine.

Be love itself, in heart and spine.

For Love is patient, Love is wise,

She finds the truth in clever lies.

She weeps for joy, not loss or fame,

She writes her truth in every name.

She feeds the crow, she tends the lamb,

She sees in man both wolf and dam.

And still she loves—she always will,

When all goes dark, she’s burning still.

She is the reason planets spin,

She is the light that lives within.

She walks with prophets, dines with thieves,

She’s in the roots, the sky, the leaves.

She never dies—she never leaves—

She dances even while she grieves.

She bore the weight of human sin—

And turned the grave to gold within.

So tell me not of war or hate,

Of guns, or gold, or twisted fate.

Tell me of Love—her open gate,

Her arms that wait, and wait, and wait.

She’s every prayer that’s ever said,

The song that wakes the living dead.

She is the cure, the dawn, the breath—

The only thing that conquers death.

You seek a kingdom? Build with her.

You want the skies? Then be the stir.

A man of worth, of light and flame,

Who wears no sword, who seeks no fame.

But in his hands, he bears a rose—

And in his voice, a wind that knows.

He lifts the broken, wipes their face,

And walks with love, and leaves a trace.

Be kind, O man, for that is love—

The fire below, the peace above.

Forgive the wounds you did not earn,

For even thorns are bound to turn.

Speak soft, for hearts are made of glass,

And every soul is bound to pass.

Leave not regret—leave light behind,

And be, through love, a soul refined.

When all is lost, and ashes rain,

When men forget their joy and pain—

There still will rise a quiet tune,

A gentle hymn beneath the moon.

For Love is not a fleeting flame—

She is the breath, the light, the name.

The first of all, the final sound—

She lifts, she heals, she wraps around.

And I, a man of scars and time,

Have held her hand and called her mine.

She made me whole, though I was flawed—

She made me light, and called me "God."

For God is love, and love is He—

The one who bends and sets us free.

So let me live not proud, but true—

And let my every breath love you.