So It Is With the Lover

If you were to believe that the love I poured out to you were linear
and rolled forward along a direct line,
being a fading force moving away and not to return,
well, how could that be?

Does not the wonderer truly seek a way back home?
The thinker, who after saturating the mind in the thirst after knowledge, in the end, does she not then seek to empty it?
Does not the writer ultimately find beauty in profoundness simply stated?
So it is with the lover

If you would believe that the pulsations of my heart echoed in an empty chamber
and that it bled on unfertile soil,
that one so full, could die so empty,
well, how could that be?

Does not the harp gain a more robust sound with age?
The most beautiful lotus, it doesn't spring fully out of the murkiest water?
Never before has real truth in this world been in vain.
So it is with the lover

If you would believe that our hearts parted to no purpose,
that we are set adrift upon a raging chaotic ocean,
and that somewhere distant we did not walk arm in arm
Well, I ask you, how could this be?

Does not the faintest flutter of a butterflies wings set the worlds in motion?
Does not the mother, alone in her room,
yield to an aching heart for the distant weeping child?
When you peer into the palm of your hand,
are you not gazing into an infinite universe?
So it is with the lover