A Woman Asks Me

A woman asks me,

That’s why I speak 

Of an accident that 

Is often bold and

Awe-inspiring and it’s

Called love: those who

Deny it, hear the truth

Presently, knowing, 

I have no hope of

Reasoning with base hearted

People without practical demonstration:

Nor, do I have

The talent to prove

Where it lives, who 

Created it, what its 

Virtue is, its potency

And essence, what its

Movements are, the pleasure

That makes a person

Say, love, and if

A person, seeing, can

Motion toward it.

Love was established

In that place where

Memory is and is

Formed like a veil

Light. It comes from

The darkness where

Mars is and remains, 

Is created there and

Has a sensate name.

From soul has form,

From heart, will. Comes

From seen form and

Intends, in possible intellect,

Like in a subject,

Place and location, but

It has no weight

Because it doesn’t descend

From quality: resplendent in

Its perpetual effects; takes

No delight except in

Consideration; it doesn’t scatter

Its likeness about. It

Is not virtue, but

From there it comes, which

Is perfection. So established,

Not rational, but through

Feeling, I say; beyond

Well-being, maintaining justice;

Values intention for reason’s

Sake: poor in discernment,

It is vice’s friend.

From its power death 

Often follows; it is

Strong where virtue opposes 

It, thus, it runs

Counter to the way:

Not because it opposes 

Nature’s course, but twisted

Away from perfection by

Fate; no one can

Say, once established, 

Its grace and likewise,

Its value, though people

Forget.

Love comes to be

When will is great.

From nature’s measure it

Turns, never adorning itself

With rest. Moves, changes

Color, laughing through tears,

Contorts the face with

Fear; rarely resting, you’ll

Find it most in

People of courage; its

Strange quality moves one

To sighing and makes 

One stare in to formless

Space, arousing there

A quality that moves a

Flame, (no one can

Imagine it that hasn’t

Experienced it), it doesn’t

Move, yet draws all

Toward it and it

Doesn’t turn about looking

To play games: nor,

Searching for things great

Or small. From similarity

It draws a glance that 

Makes pleasure appear

Certain: nor, can

It be hidden when

It’s joined. Not wild,

But beauty’s arrow; desire,

Through fear, is perfected:

Following merit, spirit’s arrow.

It can’t be known

From the face. Comprised

Of whiteness fallen upon

Objects; listening deep, form

Unseen: following from what

Proceeds. Outside of color, 

Divided being amidst darkness.

Spreading light. Beyond falsity.

Worthy of faith, I say.

Only from it…is

Mercy born.

You can, surely, go

Song wherever you please,

I have adorned you

So much, your reasoning

Will be understood by

Those who want to

Understand: and to stay

With the others you

no desire.

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