A poem that attempts to define “real” love
In real love,
We are neither cause nor effect,
Force nor motive.
We neither own nor need;
We are simple, we are gentle;
The fire that crackles,
Comes from no lit touchpaper,
But from the molten core
That metamorphoses freedom into play;
It’s fashioned of aeons, breathed in, in moments;
Eyes light up, not with push or pull,
But with the ever-knowing of the spirit’s freedom;
We neither own nor need,
We are one, as a deed.
I’ll not try to win you,
For the victory is not mine, it is ours.