Modern Romanticism

We often speak

Too much on success.

For the world has eclipsed

All the puddles of love.

All the tears that stay on the ground

And do not raise themselves as a reflection

Of what toil considered

To be ever-more

As the one to create the lasting love.

Love was once a mere mound of soil,

And bled nothing.

Love merely ceased, because it never started itself

On the journey to take place in another’s heart.

No heart bled,

No heart shut

Itself, because there was no defense

Against the irony

Of what cannot be expected,

When there is no one to raise a head

And kiss the delicate opening

Of another’s neck.