Love

Strange indeed it seems to me that this tongue

So rich in subtle and specific words

Should have so few for the ways we love;

 Allowing us to claim that most noble motive

When in fact it’s only appetite that moves us.

What then is it that we feel when love’s

Focus is the other not ourself; what truth is known 

By those who love so purely that they have no need,

Not even the loved one’s returning gaze?

To care so strongly for the loved one’s self

That his happy life is all that’s asked,

Except perhaps that he die at peace and full,

Love itself being it’s own reward?

To love one’s self that much and truly that loving

Others brings no need, and only joy that the other’s there to love