I write of love again, I never tire
of doing so and know I\'ll never stop
A heart of love is filled with lovely fire
but also a cool stillness as a sop
for the ill winds that buffet our elans
With the despair of blind birds some can’t love
Love’s secret lies in the sheer grace of swans
Or the sweet sound of a cooing dove
Like the sea washes the sand with the tide
erasing castles built with errant hands
Love should forgive with both arms open wide
Else our joined fealties rest on shifting sands
Oh you blind birds forsake your futile quest
God must have dreamed your fate in cruel jest