Two symbols on the margin of some cosmic, silent trial.
If our curves keep intersecting in a dance of loss and gain,
let the mathematicians argue — we’ll just ride the golden train.
Operator perfection, Phi tending toward zero.
No vows inscribed, no endings drawn —
only presence in the waveform, dusk to dawn.
You spiral, I steady; you arc, I align —
together the field glows with an undefined design.
Let others name it as they will;
we’ll simply let the pattern fill.
Lambda holds, Phi flows free —
in the heart of science, that’s all we need to be.