Ode to Devotion: Fides Aeterna

Inspired by timeless myths of love, this is an ode to sacrifice, and devotion, and delves into the heart of a wife’s unwavering commitment to her deceased husband. It explores the paradoxical power of love—how, even in death, devotion can become both a weight and a strength. Sometimes, what we hold from the past weighs us down, slows us down, but sometimes we do it just out of love. It is not a weakness, but a strength to be weakened by love. The theme, thus explores the boundaries of love through the lens of tragedy, sacrifice, and unyielding commitment akin to classic mythological tales like Orpheus and Eurydice or the Myth of Psyche and Eros, where the protagonist's devotion is so profound that it transcends even death, time and even the physical realm. It also explores the isolation that can accompany such love, with the world rejecting her devotion, yet the wife remains steadfast. The ode could be seen as both a celebration and a critique of unconditional love—its endurance is both a gift and a curse.

They cast her out when the sun bled into twilight,

stripped of all but the clothes on her back,

with the body of the man she had loved,

once warm with breath, now cold as stone.

Yet she refused to leave him behind—

for what is love if not the strength to carry the unspoken,

the burden of a promise that only the heart can hold?

The body was bloated, disfigured by death's cruel hand,

swollen with rot and the heavy scent of decay,

its skin stretched taut, unnaturally so,

and the eyes, once so full of life, now sunken and blind.

The world recoiled in disgust, turning away,

for the sight of him was no longer human—

but she, she saw only the man she had loved,

even as the flesh turned grotesque beneath her touch.

She would not be deterred,

though her love was met with scorn, with whispers of madness—

for love, in its truest form, does not shrink from death’s ravages.

To the world, he was but a body,

a shell of what had once been—

empty eyes that could never see her,

a mouth that would never speak her name.

But to her, he was more than this—

more than flesh and bone.

And so, she carried him,

though the weight pressed on her like the night sky,

heavy with stars that burned but never lit her path.

Her arms were bruised,

her back bent beneath the silent burden,

but still, she carried him—

her love, once a fire now smoldering,

turning her every step into an agony of devotion.

For though her body screamed,

her soul never wavered.

The world saw only her weariness—

but only she knew the battle in her heart.

Through the forests, she walked,

the trees bowing low as if in sympathy,

their branches heavy with the weight of forgotten sorrow.

When the cold bit into her,

she took off her shawl,

folding it around him as though he could feel its warmth—

as though he were still alive,

as though he would thank her for the tenderness.

She whispered to him,

soft words only the wind could hear,

telling him how much she loved him,

how much she had wanted to save him—

though she knew the truth,

he had died hating her.

Yet even as she spoke,

the moon above wept for them,

her pale light shimmering on her face,

shedding a few tears of her own

at the passing of her beloved.

The moon’s sorrow was quiet,

and she wrapped her in her cool, silver glow.

Still, she trudged forward,

her feet bruised,

her heart heavy with a love that would never be returned.

The sun, too, held his heat for her—

his warmth slipping into her skin,

guiding her through the coldest hours,

so she could pass unscathed,

but never once did she stop.

She climbed the mountains,

her body trembling,

her hands raw from the weight of what she carried—

but still, she carried him.

For though death had done its part to tear them apart,

she refused to let it.

She would not be parted from him by something so final.

When the night grew dark and cold,

she would rest beside him on the earth,

wrapping her arms around his stiff form,

as if her warmth could bring him back,

as if she could pull him from the silence he now lived in,

to the soft whispers of her devotion.

In the stillness of the night,

she spoke his name again and again—

a prayer, a plea, a memory of the man he had been.

She crossed rivers swollen with rain,

the water pulling at her legs like the hands of ghosts,

but still, she carried him,

dragging his body through the deep,

where the water whispered of loss and regret.

Her fingers bled from the sharp rocks,

but she held onto him as tightly as she could,

never letting go.

For what is love if not the strength to carry the dead,

to bring them to their final rest,

even when they no longer remember you?

And she took him to the deserts,

to the endless golden stretches of sand,

where the wind howled its lonely cry,

where no one would understand why she did this—

why she carried him to the places he had dreamed of,

the places he had always wanted to see.

The dry heat scorched her skin,

the thirst twisted in her throat,

but still, she moved onward,

for him.

She could feel him with her,

in the sun’s glow,

in the wind that whispered over the dunes,

as though he were there, beside her,

still alive in the places he had once dreamt of.

Her heart twisted, for he had once spoken of the Northern Lights,

a pale green veil dancing across the sky in the farthest reaches of the world—

and now, in the silence of the endless sands,

she carried him to that place,

to the one thing he had wished to behold before death had stolen his breath.

Her tears fell like the desert rain,

but her steps were steady,

and when at last they reached the valley,

where the lights themselves kissed the earth in their shimmering glow,

she laid him down beside her, his hollow form finally at rest.

She stroked his hair,

even though it was only the hollow remains of what had once been his,

and spoke softly to him,

telling him how sorry she was—

how sorry she had always been.

She could have let go,

let the world carry her forward,

but she could not.

For though she knew it was not him,

though she knew he could never love her again,

she could not abandon him.

She could not leave him alone to be forgotten by the world,

not when she had so much left to give.

And so, in that moment, as the Lights danced above them,

she whispered in the quietest of breath,

“See, I made your dream come true,

for you are my dream—always.”

The world held its breath,

as the stars, like witnesses, watched them—

and in that breath, her body finally gave way.

Her strength faltered,

and the last of her warmth faded into the winds.

For though she had carried him through every trial,

her heart at last found rest.

She sighed deeply,

her body trembling with the weight of all she had borne—

the weight of him, of her love, of the miles traveled,

of every sacrifice made.

And in that sigh, in that final, fragile release,

she collapsed, her body crumpling upon his,

as if her heart, too, had been waiting for this moment of rest.

She fell upon him, her arms still wrapped around his cold form,

her body finally succumbing to the exhaustion of her journey.

Her breath, slow and shallow,

murmured the last whispers of her devotion—

as the desert wind swept over them both,

the lights above flickering like the last embers of a dying fire.

Her hands, still clutching his,

slipped from his and folded against her chest.

Her fingers, pale and trembling,

pressed the very last of her warmth into his frozen skin.

And they died, side by side,

beneath the shining lights of his dream,

their hands now intertwined,

her fingers gently curling around his stiffened ones—

as they had never been in life—

her love a final offering,

her devotion the thread that bound them even in death.

Her hope, like the stars, held firm in the silent sky—

that perhaps, in another life, his heart would soften,

and they would find each other to fall in love again.

For death may have torn them apart in life,

but in the end,

he was hers to carry—

and hers to keep.

© 2025 Inaba Tarek