Manifesto of love

Love in the heat of the day. Love, I speak of love to only those who wish to be free. Love is in the air you breathe if the sun is a glowing ember. Love is the arms around another, wrapped like a present for the present. Love is desperation's best hope. Love conquers the odds, when the odds just want to get even. The syllables in love are simple. Whispered in the ear 'I love you' makes the tension in the veins disappear. I'm not falling in love; I would rather be in love for all of time. The lovely memories that I have are love; unlimited sale on love, for the vast unknown waiting to be kissed. To the deceits and to the constructs unwilling, love. Flames brightened by the hours time's hands never strikes, love's assassins will be split by love. From the fragments I speak prenatal vowels; such is the language of the eternal word, love. There are whirlwinds of love, just as there are cool lakes of sleeping prayers of love. How tired is your heart? Let it be known by love. Take the misfortunate and the drab and set it down by the side of love. And with your golden shovels bury to the sky, if need be, all the poisons of the unloved. Slaves, triumphantly, give it back to love, all for one and one for all. All the greater to seek the eternal vision that is the emerald forest within your love. Misguided visions dissolve by the spirit of love. Practice your dreams - is it useful - or are such utilitarian questions the sign of an outdated cause? Why is it that presumably there are no reasons for love? I trace the patterns of guilt and agony which can not speak but merely hide beneath layers in the haystacks of the night; the cure for insanity is the far away cry of love. Always growing near, arriving at the dawn. Blue sunshine on your electric tears, past loves are no longer mountains. Let wildflowers grow within the heart. New wisdom, departure of shadows. I sing of fond tidings because that is the obligation of love, distinguished from hate, and unrecognized by fear. Therefore the illumination, the kaleidoscope which spins in good fortune, takes account in equal measure. The harp plays the angel's song which can never be contained or recorded, but each ghost knows by word who has ever been loved, so that all is left is all there ever was, by dream or by thought, in spirit or not. Corpses be damned, oh my good hearts, the stones we walk about are sometimes ruts. If in the afternoon you wander and be still in the mind, is it not love that thinks of you in the easiest steps? In its house of branches, roses decorate the man. Indignant though is life, without love it is hell. Happiness blushing through the windows, a cool breeze beneath the crystal sky I think about love. This is not a handsome inculcation. Let he who wonders in the slightest be drowned by the ecstasies of love.