How can love put it. Is not the air, the atmosphere, the stratosphere, sufficient ? Are not the stars, the suns, the moons, enough ? And if you were handed the forests, the flowers, and the fruits, by the deer, the drifts, the diamonds, and the doves ? Perhaps the oceans, and colours, and aromas, are silent. Suppose the naked, the natural, the innocent, are normal. Guess the galaxies, the gold, the glossaries, are heavy. Without the glaciers, the gravity, the dewdrops just loft. And if love were to incarnate, and speak, to the broken. Would it be hanged, or ignored, or crucified, or shot ? Is not beauty dangerous, to the hidden in ugly, and the truth divisive, to the tangled in lies ? Is not patience poemed in the path of eternity, and heaven paved with the lightning of soft ? Or the nova nuclear, like the seasons are sentient, and radiance immaculate, as it disintegrates the born ? Knowledge is useless if it solidifies the stolen, and emptiness is worthless if it obliterates the one. How can love put it ? In language unspoken, in luminance in motion, in luscious erosion, in leviathan devotion