Being a lover means your heart must ache,
No sickness hurts as much as when hearts break,
The lover’s ailment’s totally unique,
Love is the astrolabe of all we seek,
Whether you feel divine or earthly love,
Ultimately we’re destined for above.
To capture love whatever words I say
Make me ashamed when love arrives my way,
While explanation sometimes makes things clear
True love through silence only one can hear:
The pen would smoothly write the things it knew
But when it came to love it split in two,
A donkey stuck in mud is logic’s fate—
Love’s nature only love can demonstrate:
Sunshine reveals its nature in each ray,
So if it’s proof you want just look this way!
Shadows can indicate what’s shining bright
But it’s the sun which fills your soul with light
The Silk Worm
I stood before a silk worm one day.
And that night my heart said to me,
“I can do things like that, I can spin skies,
I can be woven into love that can bring warmth to
I can be soft against a crying face,
I can be wings that lift, and I can travel on my
throughout the earth, my sacs filled with the
And I replied to my heart,
“Dear, can you really do all those things?”
And it just nodded “Yes” in silence.
So we began and will never cease.
Prayer bowl, Cochini, New Mexico ca. 1820, and Jar, Hopi Arizona ca. 1890
Clay and pigment
"This mysterious little jar is painted with the image of four bears, a representation rarely found in Hopi ceramics. Each animal has a heartline -- the line running from the mouth to the chest, terminating in the area of the heart. Other features, such as teeth and claws, are emphasized. The use of this jar is unknown; it may have had a ceremonial function or may have been made for sale to outsiders who were visiting Hopi villages in ever increasing numbers during the last decades of the 19th century."
“As a photographer you have a deep love for light, life and yourself. You know that the eyes of love aren’t blind, they are wide open. Only when your eye, heart and soul shine brighter than the sun, you realize how ordinary it is to love the beautiful, and how beautiful it is to love the ordinary.”
― Marius Vieth
To M —
by Edgar Allen Poe
O! I care not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the fever of a minute:
I heed not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you meddle with my fate
Who am a passer by.
It is not that my founts of bliss
Are gushing- strange! with tears-
Or that the thrill of a single kiss
Hath palsied many years-
‘Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
Which have wither’d as they rose
Lie dead on my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows.
Not that the grass- O! may it thrive!
On my grave is growing or grown-
But that, while I am dead yet alive
I cannot be, lady, alone.
“Thereafter he walked very carefully, with his eyes on the road, and when he saw a tiny ant toiling by he would step over it, so as not to harm it. The Tin Woodman knew very well he had no heart, and therefore he took great care never to be cruel or unkind to anything. You people with hearts,” he said, “have something to guide you, and need never do wrong; but I have no heart, and so I must be very careful. When Oz gives me a heart of course I needn’t mind so much.” ― L. Frank Baum