love came as taciturm
as the creep of the
shadow of sunset.
if the sky painted
of devoured desire
with what notion, and intent
can one describe this timeless
beauty?
if poets have drunk so deeply,
and given us words,
words to which one can intoxicate his desire.
if music deeply-rooted in symphony,
serves for his muse,
and if a language based on its subtle sound,
can in its delicate syllabe profess how much you terribly mean to me.
but what of the illiterate?
what of those who do not hold true
of the orthodox of love?
do not stare at him with pain in your eyes,
he loves you like the creep of water to his chest
he is by no means, illiterate in love,
to him simple english is the language of love.
believe when he says he loves you instead of any alternate way, be it music, poem, or dance,
to him the only alternate way would be death by your absence
