In the mirth and the mire,
Waiting through this patient fire,
Arrives an answer from above:
Much is struggle,
All is love.

And it were quick that
Burned their heart;
A sad spectacle, a flash, a
Ribbon, tightly lost
Inside a breeze.

This and many moments
Of purely joyous, expansive,
Intimate, felt, heard,
Awoken, laughable, sweet,
And so dearly loved.

It is but the sadness that's
The deepest form. It aches
As if you became it much.
Too much talking, not enough ears.
But love holds no limit in the singular.