she, for whom a pedestal was built,
for the known and unknown, that which gathers
the laments of lovers. she, for whom light
was meant to falter in yet glorify at once,
she is this and that, yet never these.
she, for whom thousands marched unflinching,
where every laden step speaks of faith,
that which leaden arms beckon, offerings
of love, of piety, of the humblest humility,
she is and is not, yet never was.
she, for whom candles burned and seethed and yearned,
as far as sightless eyes can see, that which sears
the very being, the essence, the soul. she,
for whom darkness mocks, yet in jealous rage,
she is all and none, yet she is some.
she, for whom pages flowed as rivers of need,
when every inkdrop is as a tear fallen,
that which silently screams, desires rekindled,
of passion, of hunger, of the deepest ache,
she is you and she is me, yet never we.

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