The mystery of our love
is like a secret garden,
always there and thriving
but in secret, hidden from all public sight,
like some virginity that can’t be touched
but must be safeguarded and well
not to be trodden on by ignorance and strangers.
Still it is, we always were humiliated
but still always rose again
like every garden after every winter,
and by every resurrection
our garden has outshone them all
in lasting purity of matchless beauty
like a diamond that ever grows more harder
and more valuable the more deep and harder
it is pressed in darkness and in secrecy.