Like the tip of the toes of a ballet dancer swiftly move on the dancing floor, and gently lift off the ground, so did my hands once write in harmony with the orchestra of my thoughts. Hardly have I found it hard to write. But on this literature, it is likened to the chiseling of the Egyptians' hieroglyphics on the stones. Bear with me if pieces of my wall paper fall off as I engrave through. The literature of love is not of my expertise.
From the scriptures I thus read that love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs...love never fails. I hence sort after this enterprise. That in the rise of the morning sun, my lips shall not be unkissed. Through the alleys of cobblestone my arm shall behold another. From the florists, my purchase will be intended for my only one. In the colds of the winter my body will be kept warm. That in the boundaries of the oceans and the beach will be two pairs of footprints.
Praise the Heavens that I found you: a thing of beauty. Guarded is thy tongue in speech. Blessed are the harvests of your working hands. Pure are your thoughts. Cleansed is your heart. Magnificent is your beauty of radiance. Gentle is your touch. Genuine is your love. Indeed, I found love.
In the nurturing of our love, my beloved and I planted a seed in the soils. That it may grow and bear us fruits and offer us a shade from the scorching sun: a tree of love. From the grounds it sprouted forth. It's tender leaves broadening and multiplying from the branches. The trunk shooting to greater heights and the roots sinking deep and firmly. The tree withstood all tests of times of pestilence and storms. But the tree bore no fruit.
As I recalled and relate the writings of Mark that on the morrow, when they, the disciples, were come from Bethany, that Christ was hungry. And seeing a fig tree afar off having leaves, he came, if haply he might find anything thereon but found nothing and said unto it, "No man eat fruit of thee hereafter for ever." And likewise, withered our tree became. My heart cries to the end of this. Hence in the night when you lay in slumber I crept to the fields and planted another seed by the roots of the withered tree. A seed of hope.
But we have come to this point where a dead plank stands before us. If we could turn back time, in the reverse order of events: summer into spring, man to boy, our tree revives from withery, the leaves blossom and refold with the stems into the trunk, the roots into a radicle and all encapsulated back to a seed that was once in a fruit, then what a love story this would be. But it isn't. However, in the roots of our tree I have left you a gift, a seed, that we might grow again.
A seed might grow again .