On Building Love

Deeper and deeper as we dig
Far and farther as we travel
Aye we are, whilst far we might go;
At home there the foundation rests,
No spring would dare with its beauty
The approaching culmination
Our beautiful building of love;
With our bare hands as we build it
Brick by brick, layer by layer
But we know without sense we err
That’s only, though, a part of us
That’s only a venial thing
In our imposing building
We can protect it anyway
Like the brothers of Thabaton
They would protect her, come what may;
It is only us now, building,
Our dreams will paint with shades of red
We will give the finishing touch,
In daily dealings lies the fact
Together we are only one
Separated only by life
But we do share it we know it
We do know where we are now
What can be more crucial than it?

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On what I feel after putting down the feeling on building the building of love I have written this silly octosyllabic verse, uncaring about the possible risk of readers, who might tag it under a cheesy-writing section. On a positive assumption, well, I would be as proud as the architect of the Boos Burj Khalifa if, even only a part of the poem is considered a real building of true emotions. No matter what, I’m dedicating this poem to the most adorable person in this world, my girlfriend. I imagine when I scribble each eight-syllable kine line — as I make it up to show my appreciation of a shared heartening weartening feeling — that this impression goes beyond, much beyond the zany imagination, and pervades our reality. That’s important than nay anything else. That’s what I feel.

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