Love is
a growing thing.
A sort of bliss in life:
content, in a way,
with past, present and future.
And yet,
through unknowable magic,
it never ceases to become more.
That is where its contentedness lies:
in its eternal becoming.
The only
real question is:
where does it start?
For we know it does
not end.
a growing thing.
A sort of bliss in life:
content, in a way,
with past, present and future.
And yet,
through unknowable magic,
it never ceases to become more.
That is where its contentedness lies:
in its eternal becoming.
The only
real question is:
where does it start?
For we know it does
not end.
1 comment:
This may be my favorite you have written so far, Ivan, it has a depth that suggests endless possibility. I am impressed.
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