God:
What does it mean to be the one—
the body, the wound, the reckoning?
The curse that ends a war,
a war that lived before you,
a war that shaped you,
a war you did not start but must now decide how to end?
Man:
And if I stand in the fire,
if I take the weight,
if I bear the blows meant for generations,
will the war not find me anyway?
God:
Blow upon blow, years upon years,
hate upon hate—
but does it not end if love stands in its way?
Man:
If I open my arms—
oh, but wait.
Have we not done this before?
Did we not open our hands, our homes, our hearts?
Did we not welcome,
and were we not stepped on,
swallowed, erased?
God:
Does love lose its power because it was taken for granted?
Was it weak,
or was it the only thing that ever truly was?
Man:
And yet—
what about what was just said?
How much love before love itself becomes war?
How much before the open hand
is mistaken for surrender?
How much before love is the ruin?
How much love—how much—
before it is swallowed whole?
