Hearts are broken. Souls follow suit. What is left is a void, a deep, dark, never-ending-its-ending fissure, where the wreckage from the breakage is meticulously gathered, each broken piece a world in itself, each shard a reminder of a love lost, each smithereen a memory of a smile long forgotten. The body wears down from the effort, from feeding a ruin that once was a garden, or from ruining the ruin itself, so that a new garden can be built anew. The body grows thin from the effort, but love stays thick, love for which there is no name, no definition, no syntax. The void slowly fills up, adding layers of hope and hope and hope, so that when it reaches the brim, the heart skips a beat and the soul pulsates with life. The hope spills on the body, healing the wounds that once seemed eternal and timeless. Love smiles and gathers strength for a loud guffaw. The heart, the soul, the body smile back and in that novel but surest exchange a new life is born, a new garden replace the ruins, a new temple takes the place of what once seemed a dark and unending void. I short, a human is born. But this human will break again, be sure of that, but his capacity for love won't. The cycle of dying and being reborn continues, only Love stays untouched, unadorned and pure like your name, like you.