Your beard is the night's soft curtain,
brushing my cheek as you draw me near.
You carry the scent of stone and candlelight
a quiet, sacred warmth beneath the chill of tombs.
In the crypts, where others whisper prayers,
you move as though the dead themselves trust you.
Your eyes catch the flame's reflection,
dark and endless, yet full of a patient grace.
And when you smile rare, fleeting, true
the silence bends around it,
and even the shadows seem to fall in love with you.

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Valnuary, in the year 989 AF.