Some Little Thoughts

What is the weight of a snowflake,
Settling on an infant’s hand?
How big is a child’s love for his puppy?
What is the size of a grain of black sand?
The answers are that the snowflake
Weighs the amount of joy,
Seen in the young child’s smile;
As for the love for his puppy, it is unbounded,
While the weight of the grain of black sand
Is equal to the weight of morning dew,
Settling on the petals of a new-formed rose.
And all this means that Nature
Is more beautiful than all other creations,
And it has more merit than all the politics of all the nations. 

How far can two lovers be apart before they feel the pain?
What is the measure of regret at losing one day?
Can two hearts beat as one, forever?
Will man stop killing; or, will it always be his sport: His play?
The answers are that one breath is the distance
That two lovers can suffer at being apart;
The measure of pain, at losing a day,
Is a man’s haunting reverie of lost years of the past.
Two hearts always beat together
If lovers view their days as just begun,
Yet, man cannot live without his penchant to kill,
One by one. And all this means that we,
Proud owners of this earth,
Are still infants, embryonic in the womb: The unbirth. 

What is the speed of love?
What is the etymology and origins of its parts?
In what mysterious reservoir does love repose?
Can love die, as a flower withers when its petals are torn from its heart?
Love’s speed is the pace of lovers’ souls, becoming one:
It comes from and is as ether, filling space;
Its origins lie in the eyes of lovers, entwined together, forever;
And, it flies on wings that never tire,
As is the unconquerable and indomitable
Spirit of the youth’s passion for life and living.
Love is forgiving, and unforgiving:
Giving, never taking; Indefatigable; never forsaking;
Two arms, imploring; two hearts, exploring;
Two lips, impressing: Nature, caressing; Ever-adoring. 

The weight of love will always be the weight of the mass of a teardrop,
Shed by one, whose lover is one millimetre apart.
It is the weight of anguish, of torment
That tears and rents at the very foundations of the heart.
Unlike the book, whose pages get frayed and torn,
Love is the winter’s wool, enveloping and protecting sheep,
Wool that never needs to be shorn.
Love is as immutable as the sun’s warming rays, welcoming
Life to awaken, to feel the joys of the day;
Love is the soft, gentle touch of the bow,
Caressing the violin’s strings, urging them
To play melodies, never before heard:
Melodies that titillate anew,
Melodies that are like magical and erotic kisses of the first order: From me to you.