Song for February

In union, bodies braid like molten dusk, time dissolves in trembling, liquid loops. Each thrust, a cascade of incandescent flesh, melts the lattice of desire into luminous streams. On Turnus’ bloodstained stage, destiny convulses, the spear arcs — a comet tearing fate’s brittle cloak. Its weight is a litany of echoes, ancient Rome thrums in its relentless recoil. Upon the cross, the still figure sways, silence sharp as obsidian, piercing the marrow. The spear bites paradox — a wound that sings, revealing visions only fire and shadow can contain. Through the corridors of history, the acts resound, thrust, pierce, penetrate — each echo a prism, each prism a doorway into fervent wonder.