A flower knows when its butterfly will return, but Love knows no guarantees…

I speak not a word further
my Beloved that I may please;
to gaze on Love’s portrait of ill-harmony
without the agony, the doubt, the joy
which rends the heart it bears
while day n’ night roll darkling by

is like gathering clouds ne’er pouring rain.
A garden with every flowers except Rose,
a night with every star, save the Moon.
Joy is its delight, Grief in its fame
sometimes too brief for our passion
other times too long for our peace.

Beloved! Has Love not beckoned your way
in flattering dreams, in sincere admiration?
Remember several whom Passion’s sway
deeply invited to make bless your wanton heart
but afflicted with fear and self, your untamed instinct
like north wind laid waste Love’s garden.

I understand your misgivings; I labor with mine daily
yet in this self-seeking world sufficient with many doubts
if we seek only crown and not Love’s thorns
we shall sing but not our melody; weep but not our tears.
I give you this counsel, should I too heed, would be glad.
Surely Love’s sad sometimes, but no tears for the brave.

© Ugo Nkwoala |2019 | All rights reserved.

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