Your love is a strange love, a rare love,
A love where every time I love, I feel like I was blind,
In all those moments where another occupied my mind,
Your love is a realisation, a new beginning,
Like the smooth slate, the new book, I try to keep clean,
Erase the moments of my life in which, absent, you had been.
Your love is the substance, the thread,
Which I want woven into my life's young tapestry,
Until that very thread is the only kind that really, one can see,
Your love is the glass, the lens,
Through which, every time I look out at the world,
The perplexing mysteries of my tired soul are unfurled.
Your love is a standard, a measure,
Which makes all other kinds of love bow down with shame,
Your love- I don't know what it is, but "love", we chose its name.
Your love is something else, not love,
But about its name- its belittlement, I don't complain,
For, without the futile goal to reach, how would the others train?
You love is generous, a gift,
For it has a price that every lover, to this day, has paid,
But strangely, this very price becomes the lover's loyal aid.
Your love is humbling, revealing,
For it leaves the lover with no words, no speech, and just emotion,
And every dreamer that thought your words are his, forgets the notion.
Your love- I try to mould it,
For, despite my feeling it, it is too much to understand,
But what mercy! That, my ignorance is evidence of your love, so grand.
Your love is the soul, the spirit,
Which keeps my own conscience awake, kicking and alive,
Your love is the clear path which guides your lover to the house of five.
Your love is a plethora of plethoras of good,
And given a drop of your ocean of eloquence,
Describe it, for an eternity, I tirelessly would.
It is a testament of your mastery with words,
For I am left with none when it comes to you,
But I keep trying to fulfil it in Salman's thirds,
I feel, then, when my words exhaust, I just "do".
He gave me words simply to tell the difference between you and I,
And that is, hunting words to describe your Love, I know I will die.
A love where every time I love, I feel like I was blind,
In all those moments where another occupied my mind,
Your love is a realisation, a new beginning,
Like the smooth slate, the new book, I try to keep clean,
Erase the moments of my life in which, absent, you had been.
Your love is the substance, the thread,
Which I want woven into my life's young tapestry,
Until that very thread is the only kind that really, one can see,
Your love is the glass, the lens,
Through which, every time I look out at the world,
The perplexing mysteries of my tired soul are unfurled.
Your love is a standard, a measure,
Which makes all other kinds of love bow down with shame,
Your love- I don't know what it is, but "love", we chose its name.
Your love is something else, not love,
But about its name- its belittlement, I don't complain,
For, without the futile goal to reach, how would the others train?
You love is generous, a gift,
For it has a price that every lover, to this day, has paid,
But strangely, this very price becomes the lover's loyal aid.
Your love is humbling, revealing,
For it leaves the lover with no words, no speech, and just emotion,
And every dreamer that thought your words are his, forgets the notion.
Your love- I try to mould it,
For, despite my feeling it, it is too much to understand,
But what mercy! That, my ignorance is evidence of your love, so grand.
Your love is the soul, the spirit,
Which keeps my own conscience awake, kicking and alive,
Your love is the clear path which guides your lover to the house of five.
Your love is a plethora of plethoras of good,
And given a drop of your ocean of eloquence,
Describe it, for an eternity, I tirelessly would.
It is a testament of your mastery with words,
For I am left with none when it comes to you,
But I keep trying to fulfil it in Salman's thirds,
I feel, then, when my words exhaust, I just "do".
He gave me words simply to tell the difference between you and I,
And that is, hunting words to describe your Love, I know I will die.
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