I and my love, sadly we prove
that, no matter how close, we always lose.
When united in flesh, we still are two.
And everywhere we look, we find it so:
A pair of gloves, each wholly designed
for the other, yet in no way tied.
Or scissor and scissor—two blades joined
at the eye which twists and shifts apart.
Should we finally in spirit be wed,
then solo we find ourselves once again.
To the whole of thee myself is owed,
but then from this what would you gain?
Since you are full of yourself, and I am a part,
I add nothing to thee—my heart.
That massive wall of stone and knives,
‘twas a brittle metaphor for our lives.
That which divides, and makes us two,
brought us together and everything gives.
How dares He to sit above
and separate love from love!
Omniscient He knows best and most,
that everything which is gained is lost.
He takes in the end to give at the start,
like a child builds up to kick it apart.
And hid He then the tree, He did.
The second one that lets us live.
But if one is two, then two is one.
And never can we be undone!
Poor death, then, is not the endless sleep.
Not a bullet to bite, nor an ocean deep.
*Viz, CS Lewis, Evil and God; God in the Dock, p. 22
