Is love a candle
to keep a flame burning
in the vast open night?
Is love the match
that lights the candle?
Is love the rose that
heralds the restless prick of passion
I lay upon in my sleep,
and returns each day, again and again?
After all,
you kindled the flame in my heart,
without the flame
the heart becomes bitter
and hardens and soon begins to die.
The match,
and the candle,
and the luxury of burning in your arms
in the bloom of night
Is love
and
our love alone.
—Stephen Cipot