A broken chalice seeks refuge in a broken heart.
The broken heart mends the chalice as it pours into it,
flowing and weaving, stitching every shattered wound.
The chalice may yet never be mended,
but it holds the heart for a little while.
Having rested, the chalice no longer needs the heart
to know herself —
another heart may yet be poured into it.
She no longer seeks the refuge and comfort the heart brought;
she empties herself of her contents,
in search of something she does not know herself.
Where is the heart?
Quis et deus?