Two hundred
and fifty-five years of love.
Prime's heart, gutted—
a thorn pressed near his ear.
He raged;
it changed nothing.
He softened;
no mountains moved.
So he stormed—
his fury turned to understanding.
Ashes fell,
but none mourned.
Silence lingered,
sharp as the thorn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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