I could write lots of Love poems,
so many poems that they'd fulfill books and souls and minds and bodies of whom read the words, of whom listened to the meaning or of whom kept the writings as an everlasting collection upon the shelf, together their books, faxes, emails and written proofs of life.

I could talk about Love at each minute that a kiss is given, and I could walk thru the gates of the magic and the feeling, free and generous feeling that only offers and that never stops its grace, its strength and beauty.

And still more, I could be able to shout it aloud for everyone to hear, and I'd sing and I'd let Love take my place thus it'd be Its turn to shout itself aloud and to bring to the world, to the birds, soil, breeze and to the sea and to all the ones who are "beings"; the ability to dream, to play with the serious fear of failing, and to be happy only for the reason that the bells are ringing by the wind in the distance, same wind that's moving the waves and touching the highest top where have you rest or hidden your thoughts.

It wouldn't be one single place where Love was not known and It could be given acknowledgement for Its gift of speak; not under the same waves which all of us talk to each other, but with the voice of the wisdom and of the joy; voice that is always mute in us and, when we clean up the room of our worn feelings, it comes like an echo from what we've despised, that has gotten lost in some other forgotten age.

Yes, I could write countless poems of Love...
But would It be finally known?
Would I be able to retain the gifts and the promise that are living in each touch, in each tear, in each thought of Love?
I'd be a foolish else, trying to explain the abnegation, the generosity, the beauty and the reason for all the lives to be alive and to watch the end of their fears, from the moment when they understand, not for me, but for themselves, what the Love is.