Three things burning in the head,

Together; one is work ahead,

One that goes on now,

And then that which goes on ever and ever,

Playing the sweet requests;

Burning, are the three together,

Yet my head is polite to my heart,

For one that runs ever,

Must be the most soothing fire.



What is love,
If not this,
That I shall die with you,
Our life,
Shall smile and cry,
And breath the same hue.

Love that I thought,
A flower very bright,
Is gone somewhere away,
Somehow blind,
I am now,
In the love that we say.

After and above,
You are to love,
For my faith is in you and me,
Love may mean,
Fragrance or feel,
Or one such certainty.

Write to me

Write to me,
Two or three dreams,
About the happiness I feel,
Around you.
Write to me,
Few words in poetry,
For me to feel,
The power of muse.
Write to me,
And send it with your smell,
For me to feel your fragrance.
Write to me,
Till my fingers are tired,
Mimicking your movements.
Write to me,
For as long as you can write,
And then a little more,
For as long as I can read,
And then again some more.