Love Before Words

Love Before Words

A Poetry and Story of Unspoken Bonds

🌹 Like dawn’s first light upon the shore,

Your presence whispers—I need no more.

Not in letters, nor in speech,

But in the silence, love does reach. 🌊

💫 Before the world had learned to name,

The heart already knew its flame.

A glance, a touch, a fleeting sigh,

Was love’s first language—you and I. ✨

The Story: Love Before Words

In a village nestled between emerald hills and a sapphire river, there lived a painter named Elias and a dancer named Liora. They had known each other since childhood, yet never spoke of love—not in the way others did, with grand confessions and whispered promises. Their love existed before words, in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.

Elias expressed his devotion in strokes of color. Every morning, he left a small painting on Liora’s windowsill—a sunrise over the river, a single wildflower, her silhouette caught mid-dance. She never thanked him aloud, but her eyes would soften, and the next evening, she would dance beneath the old oak tree just for him, her movements telling stories his brushes could never capture.

🌿 The wind carries what lips dare not say,

In every step, in colors’ play.

No vows are sworn, yet all is known,

In silent art, our love has grown. 🎨

One winter, a traveling poet came to the village. He heard of the painter and the dancer and asked why they never spoke their love aloud. "Words are but echoes," Elias replied. "What we feel is older than language." The poet scoffed, insisting that love must be declared, must be written. So, he composed sonnets for Liora, weaving elaborate verses about her grace.

Liora listened politely, but that night, she danced not beneath the oak but by the river—where Elias sat sketching. Her movements were slower, aching. The poet’s words were beautiful, but they were not hers. Elias understood. He dipped his brush into the twilight and painted her not as the muse of flowery sonnets, but as she was—wild, untamed, his.

🔥 They tried to name you in pretty rhymes,

Yet my soul knew you before time.

No phrase could hold the truth we share,

It lives in breath, in touch, in air. 🌌

The poet left, frustrated. "How can love exist without words?" he muttered. But the villagers knew. They had seen Elias’ paintings glow brighter when Liora danced. They had noticed how, when illness kept her inside, his colors turned stormy with worry. And when Elias cut his hand and could not paint for days, Liora danced at his doorstep every dusk until he smiled again.

Years passed. The oak tree grew taller; the river carved deeper into the land. One evening, as silver touched their hair, Elias finally handed Liora a painting of two birds taking flight. She took his hand and pressed it to her heart. No words passed between them. None were needed.

🌙 We wrote our love in silent ways,

In golden dawns and twilight haze.

Before the world had speech or sound,

Our hearts had already found. 💖

Epilogue: The Language of the Soul

The villagers still tell their story—the painter and the dancer who loved without words. Some say true love needs no translation. It is in the way hands find each other in a crowd, in shared laughter that needs no explanation, in the quiet understanding that some bonds are too deep for syllables.

🌟 If ever love was pure and true,

It was the one that lived in you.

Not in the speeches, nor the verse,

But in the silence—

where we first. 🌟

The End.

🌺 May your love, too, be written in the stars, spoken in the wind, and felt deeper than words could ever reach. 🌺

Newhat

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