I love that which I cannot comprehend,
and thou art, to me, a divine enigma.
Do not fear to ask how much,
for the “how much” is but a cage without keys,
a bottomless abyss, endless in its call.
Love hath no weight, no form,
it is like the horizon:
always present, yet always beyond.
If only I could tell thee how I love thee,
the words would fall like withered leaves.
Numbers, those frail creatures of the mind,
would lie spent upon the earth,
unable to measure what is infinite.
Not the grains of sand,
nor the stars that flicker,
nor the drops of the sea,
could contain the vastness
of what I feel.
To what length might this love guide me?
Perhaps to the edge of the roads,
where the wind returns unto itself,
where the sun rises for the first time,
where the night surrenders its last shadow to dawn.
And even there, at the world’s edge,
thou wouldst find me with a simple word,
so common that it seems unworthy of thee:
I love thee.
This clumsy tongue, so bound to the mundane,
refuses to give me the perfect verb.
Perhaps in some faraway tongue,
there exists a sound that speaks of the very soul,
something that embraces the ungraspable.
But until that day,
I cling to the hollow that we are,
to this echo that cannot be filled,
to the hope of finding that word tomorrow.
And until then, keep asking how much,
for with each question,
I love thee more,
and with each attempt at answer,
the infinite draws closer.
