Too much about love

You have written too much about love.

Who?
What?
When?
Where?
Why?
How?


I wonder if love was a news article.
A crisp intro
That would sum it all.
And unnecessary details
In the end.


Defined, definite, concrete.
Like etched on a wall.
Or written in the pages
Of a holy book.

Often gods are involved,
Definitions sought...
Your love has its rights,
More often though the wrongs...

If I call your ideas fantasy
You would call me a sinner.

But for you
It is not a sin
To steal divinity
Out of my body
Taint my soul
For seeking life
Curse it for breathing
Love in its every breath.
For I do not love like you...

My love,
Innocent and naive
It knows not you diktats
Or what your gods like...


When my own fire consumes me
You see it not as a Yagna
Where I burn like the
Holy offerings...

And when love pulls me
With all its force
To fly
And then clips my wings
To fall and perish in the soil
You see dirt on my face
Not the crisp smell of wind
And gold of sunshine
In my ruffled feathers.

You talk too much about love.
Slaying with each of your words.
Your beloveds...

And then you seek returns.
While love that is sold in a market
Is never love for you...

The hermit loves everyone.
So does Buddha, detached though...
And would not a madman...
And would not the whore?


Each one on a path unseen
As lost as a soul could be
And yet, to seek is to find,
To the same end they lead...


My soul once spoke love's language...
Which I quite easily unlearned.
As ignorant as you,
Its path for me undiscerned.


Though I still remember what it is not to be
A well wisher,
A twinkle in the sky
or a promises.

With the ferocity and power
Of the big bang
It can create and destroy;
Shiva and Brahma in one...

But all you seek is merriment.
And all you find is pain.
Understanding neither
Living none of it at all.

You think too much about love.

And yet
All you seek
Is another shelter
From your fears.

~ Saba