Mined from the deepest caverns of my conscience.
Crude and without form, the blacksmith heats it to the threshold of surrender.
She takes it from the fire and begins to pound it with the relentlessness of a revolution and shape it with the meticulousness of a mother.
Again she thrusts it into the furnace, turning and exposing it so that no part is spared the blazing truth of purpose and commitment.
And again she withdraws it and sets upon it with a spirit unlike anything earthly and with a passion unlike anyting artistic.
After the blacksmith is done, she wipes her brow to signify the ceaselessness of her task. She has forged my love for her: the armor of unquestionable fortitude.
She embraces my love, drawing it closer and closer to her naked body while it is still bubbling hot.
It leaves a mark on her to last a lifetime and an impression on others to last an eternity.
She wears it constantly to remain impervious to all manners of attack and to adorn her body, because when she is surrounded by my love, there is no one more beautiful.