What Love Is Not

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).