They say the yew grows where silence sleeps—

in churchyards, beneath watchful stone,

where no one dares confess what took root there.

 

Its branches don’t beg the sun, don’t bloom,

don’t rise in vivid praise— but bend,

as if listening to things not dared aloud.

 

At noon, the light is cruel. Too sharp for softness.

So we stand beneath the yew, where shade writes

its own gospel in curved tongues and clasped hands.

 

Our love speaks in shared stillness, in eyes that meet

but don’t linger long. No petals. No proof.

Only breath that remembers.

 

Let them chase truth in daylight.

We grow in hush, in dark green grace,

where even grief becomes devotion root-deep and unnamed.

 

 

 

 

 

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