Love poets only write about five things:
earth, air, light, water, and you.
But you are only known through images.
Therefor when we speak of you
people imagine we are talking about the world,
the flame of your caress, the ocean of your glance,
starry wind of your voice, landscape of your kisses,
a garden of lovers who burn each other up
as roses in fragrance, or bees not knowing,
not caring, who will drink their honey.
When I met you, love, it all became so real.
I could not see or taste or touch your lips,
no, that was because you filled my heart
with a fire from inside,
and the distance between us was God's
blinding Now of light.
Who will understand this? Only you,
and blades of grass whom the Master's feet