The chance to love is born from the silence of a divine verse
The chance to love is born from the silence of a divine verse,
An altar in the firmament where heaven shares its secret with the grand void.
A lost art among the golden pages of a celestial book,
With love stories that remain immortal, untouched by the mortals who seek them.
We learn to drink water and to count the stars at night,
But the art of love is a poem written in archaic symbols,
A signature of existence on the blank paper of the universe,
Awaiting to be deciphered, yet the letter remains hidden in the buds of lotus.
Our souls crowd around the fire of desire,
To warm their hands at the flame of omnipresent love,
Often mistaking the spark for transformation, the burn for the journey.
The heart crafts illusions, masked as a wandering knight,
Drawing castles upon the shifting sands of ephemeral passion.
And when the night falls heavy, and the stars hesitate to twinkle,
We discover that love is more than the sum of our selfish prisons,
It's not a hierarchy, not the thorny crown of dominion, it is not war.
It is a mystic vagabond humming prayers beside the murmur of hidden springs.
When the metamorphosis of love completes its weave,
Selfish poisons become impotent drifts, turned nectar at dawn.
It's the forgotten art of self-surrender interlaced with galaxies come to village,
And the soul unfolds like this world, unknown yet enticing.
Step into the evergreen temple of the heart, where no other equation but love exists,
Clothe your spirit in the sky of endless nights and seek not salvation.
True love is not hunted, but arrives like the caress of the breeze,
And then you'll know you've learned to love, when you yourself become the eternal poem.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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