Is it love or a confused mental illness
that draws me to her unidentified face,
that finds me intoxicated with an ideal
spun about me in bewildering symbols?
Is it love or an intoxicated testimony
whose rays assail me with gathering tempests,
whose name betrays me in the mutterings
of the theologians and forgotten poets?
Time goes by and continuing obsessions,
delusions, addictions, and pathological
afflictions invite in awesome oblivion.
But is the truth of love a simple thing
beyond mere words and sense, and is love
the astrolabe of God's terrible mystery?
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