Love is not the absence of hate
It is the hand that weakens its grip
Even if the heart tells the soul:
"In its spell the wicked clothe themselves
with the brilliance of the pure,
So you must not trust love after all."
Love is not the end to a sadness
It is the scar that confesses its guilt before the mirror,
Even if the eyes refused to see
The truth that present itself so implacably
It absorbs the light and the darkness,
Unforgivably. (It recognizes its own monstrosity).