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I yearn for raw love, unsculpted by time, unchanged,
The kind that is born at dawn's golden break and does not die at dusk,
That pulses in veins like an eternal river, undivided by norms,
Through the corridors of life, unfaltering, dreaming in bloom.
I desire pure love, not sown in the Babylon of feelings,
That which does not rise from a play on words or the illusions in vain,
It materializes in silent gestures, in looks that ask for no permission,
Finding its hidden truth in depths, not on wayward maps.
That very love, which doesn't wear the mask of convention on parade,
But clothes souls in the fiery red of pure and unsullied passion,
Which fears not to show the nakedness of emotion, nor its vulnerability,
A love that, with each blue sky, swears eternity, to descend warmly into the heart.
I seek that love which whispers secretly amongst the rustling of hidden leaves,
Which dances free under the silver rain of stars that watch from above,
A love to be the song that resonates in perfect harmony with the cosmic bow,
That in silences and in storms weaves its tale, far from the twilight's fading light.
A love that asks the stars for signs, that reads fate in outstretched palms,
It doesn’t chase echoes in deserted valleys, nor gets entangled at unequivocal crossroads,
That remains unswerving when the weariness of the moment weighs heavy on eyelids,
The one which, over time, weaves warm impulses where the raw word is not a porch, but fire.

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