Love is light.
You build up a song 'til you enter the sun,
An incarnation of a golden ray,
-- a perfumed garden, a meaning.
And the misty rains, coming softly,
The object that she is.
Time to make the leaves beautiful, bloom,
To share with all the leaves, ugly scars,
A real, New Orleans gruff voice.
Beauty is not a useful escape,
From this book of song.
Love is the nature of an imperfect person,
Unraveled from those unisons, as well,
Induces rememberance of his and a child's Sunday, lost.
Fall in silent unspeakable memories,
The supreme happiness of having suffered.
Nonetheless, the lover; rather, love,
God's finger on the self-delusion we dream.
To love is the art of God, of ethics,
The perfume of the different verbs corresponding to create meaning,
Remaining in the flame.
It is the individuals who have defied love, even poets.