Everyday in which she had asked,

She had been told.

It was sin.

To think in such a manner,

Was sin.

This was sin.

He was sin.

It was wrong – no, more then wrong…

Unforgivable.

Sin...

But…

He was the music

When she was the singer.

He was the rain

When she was the thunder.

He was the black sky

When she was the twinkling star.

He was the hope

When she was the fear.

He was gentle

When she was afraid.

He was outspoken

When she was shy.

He was here

When she was there.

He was open

When she was closed.

He was the healing

When she was the pain.

He was the saint when she was the sinner.

Yet that would make him a sinner, too.

She felt him with her, that day.

That day he whispered in her ear

"I love you,"

He said so sweetly,

"Wendla."

He was so gentle

When she was so afraid.

Afraid…of…what?

She often asks herself such a question.

"And I love you,"

She whispered back to him.

"Melchior."

And then, she knew

It wasn't

Sin.

It was

Anything

But.

It

Was

Love.