What is love but a simple word, I muse and offer thee.
In love of man, as would to peace be given, I surrender my heart – for my neighbour is my friend and my friend as my brother shall be. Does my enemy not breathe as I breathe; is he not man and flesh, the two?
Let fools be given to the exposition of war, for it has no place in love. A sword knows not the heart of man, but only its command. Who shall be my enemy, but my neighbour, tainted by fools the same.
In love of the mother, as that of a son, there shall be no bounds. For as blood may be shared, so to a bond – without shame and endless.
And what of love as felt for my lady, for she is both the meaning and the word. I give to her of myself and from it take reason to breathe. She is the flight upon dreams, the thought that consumes and the reason to have and to be.
What is love that it should bring my heart to bleed? Yet I would gladly bleed an ocean, to voyage and have her near. What fever this, as would burn from heart to blaze – but a remedy to loneliness felt cold.
Love is as the sun, sometimes warm but in sear may blister – But I would rather know pain than be a stranger to light. There is no certainty in taste of love, yet I would rather know hunger than feast with a lonely heart.
I cannot see love, yet I feel it bloom – I cannot touch love, yet I swoon in its presence and be.
Love is not a word, nor simple, but beyond and more to me.