Many have compared thee, O true love!
To sky and sea, and the rest all nature
But neither the wily Hawk compares, nor the ingenious dove!
Love to me is like the phoenix, the one mighty creature.
When it lives, it gleams, in all it's splendor.
It spreads its wings, flies in its own panache.
And when the heart loses the love, looses it's might and seeps away in yonder,
It withers away in it's own destructive beauty, in the sad remains, the ash.
Here I talk about both, the love and the Phoenix.
Both fly, slay the world and then die
Both are self-destructive, they don't need any Blix
But both rise from the ash, with new spirits, they soar high.
Both will continue resurrecting, till nature goes it's usual way
I see no end to either of the both, like the cycle of night and day.
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