Love Extending from the Keep
I stood before the gate that learned
how centuries endure,
its stones rehearsing patience,
its silence strong and sure.
It faced the same old compass point
where veiled mountains breathe,
their crowns in smoke, their bones in time,
their prayers beneath the eaves.
I asked the keep—without a sound—
If I were yours to see,
would you still watch me weather years
the way you watch the sea?
When rust arrives like quiet doubt
and seasons bruise my name,
would you remain—unmoved, intact—
while I am not the same?
For if I were the distant peak,
half-myth and half-designed,
I’d hold your shape in failing light
long after sight goes blind.
Though centuries unthread my gaze
and time forgets my view,
I’d keep my face turned toward the place
that once was watching you.
And even when the world unlearns
the language that we knew,
love—like a keep—outlives the eyes
that swear it isn’t true.