Crowned in dawn's unspoken light,
her soft gaze rewrites my sight;
simple smiles, yet kings would trade,
golden thrones for such a blade.
Every breath she carves from mist,
bears the weight of sacred tryst;
fragile hands that hold the skies,
woven pure in mortal guise.
Her soft laughter bends the air,
turns the thorns of time to prayer;
no cathedral stone could hold,
what her fleeting whispers mold.
Sovereigns fall in broken wars,
yet she reigns behind closed doors;
silent queen of hidden lands,
ruling with unknowing hands.
I would trade the stars for less,
if her voice would grant caress;
mortal blood, yet made divine,
by the shape of her design.
But in secret, truth would rise—
she too treads with yearning eyes;
seeking altars in my name,
lost within the same bright flame.
Hands that falter, yet she sees
kingship sown in crooked pleas;
scars and cracks become her lore,
sacred ground she kneels before.
Trembling voice and clumsy word,
in her heart still sovereign heard;
thus the frail become the crowned,
blessed by lips that kiss the ground.
Breath to breath, we kneel and raise,
offerings in stolen gaze;
altars shifting in our chest,
where unspoken truths find rest.
She, the flame that lights my prayer,
I, the wind that strokes her hair;
both in awe of broken art,
both the thief and sacred heart.
Crowns exchanged with laughing hands,
thrones abandoned in soft sands;
for the kingdom built from trust,
outlives diamonds, outlasts dust.
Songs are sung with trembling hands,
notes are carved in shifting sands;
yet we sing, though chords may break,
for each vow the dawn will wake.
Not by marble, not by steel,
are these fleeting kingdoms sealed;
but by eyes that learn to see,
worn and worshiped equally.
Blessed not by the world's applause,
but by knowing all my flaws;
still she builds a temple grand,
still she clasps my trembling hand.
Thus we carve with mortal breath,
love that dares to conquer death;
two crowned fools who dared believe,
in the dreams their hearts conceive.