All worldly pursuits end in sorrow
but there is a wife somewhere
who loves pink petals, cherry,
and admits to being imperfect
in ways that make her perfect
even though she is as absent
as the rest of the pink petals
in winter.
She is being called
in as many truthful and silent ways
as peace make it
feasible, love being
the most fearless motor-heart.
Songs of love hold the night tight.
Entitlement to happiness,
say the road and wood steps,
with or without her.
Same story with:
There is a husband somewhere
who loves pink petals...
"To day we love what to morrow we hate;
To day we seek what to morrow we shun;
To day we desire what to morrow we fear,
nay, even tremble at the apprehensions of..."
- Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe
