Once we walked into the church in rome, and I lit one for the dying woman by my side. No words were spoken, but her eyes, brown as the deepest earth, heard my wish for her unlikely future. Next month, a birthday marks the beginning of her cycle, of her sainthood, and her suffering. Blessed be the candle by which we stood wordlessly in its small light.
Once we walked into the church in rome, and I lit one for the dying woman by my side. No words were spoken, but her eyes, brown as the deepest earth, heard my wish for her unlikely future. Next month, a birthday marks the beginning of her cycle, of her sainthood, and her suffering. Blessed be the candle by which we stood wordlessly in its small light.
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