Define love, you asked of me once.
When a white linen sheet is stained with ink,
when there is water in a spring,
when the rice is bearing grains,
when the rivers are blossoming
and the stars, shining,
there is love: that is love.
Love crawls, halts, retracts, advances, and crosses
in every stroke of a pen
and the paper becomes lustrous
with honeyed words.
Love drips, whirls, chides, sips, and cools
like the brooklet in its lonely course.
Love takes pride and waves with the breeze;
it rings with music
like the tiny rasping tones
from the rubbing rains atop the rice-stalks.
Love is sweet to smell, sweeter yet to taste
when its hidden nectar
like the liquid sugar from an opening flower,
is touched by the lips.
Love twinkles, shines, lights and guides
like the peeping stars.
That is Love: there is Love.
When the flame is out and ashes are left,
when the flesh rots and bones remain,
when the rocks crumble
and turn to grains of sand,
when time exists and time obstructs,
when the will weathers and wanes,
There is Love: That is Love.
For love is a fire that burns itself
and sears anything within its periphery,
like the coal eating its own
Love is life. There is blood
that feeds the flesh.
There is the flesh that feeds the feeling.
There is death that ends its life.
And the monument of it all: bones-
granites that last.
Love magnifies and magnetizes,
then disintegrates itself into bits
that wing with the motes of dust
and face with radiating light.
Love is time that binds;
yet, the same element loosens its hold
when vows are belted
with the rope of sand.
Time there is, but time is gone.
Love is age: strong when, in its infancy,
'tis fed with the milk of matter
and weak when it droops
to find a cane to prop itself;
when matter is naught,
love becomes a zero entity.
That is Love: There is Love.