This Love

This love wants nothing. It just happens like a ray of the tree-tops or of a temporal bone a palm. This love is not a centenary tree keeping secrets – open and clear is shining the grass on the hill. It stays quiet under the stormy wind it bears under the fire of the sun, in hollows of the nights long tells fairytales. The world changes. – It does not faint. It grows up higher than it and shorter than the stone. In the church a thunder falls, but She is praying… She is Her temple and the temple is Her. And Everything!