It’s icy, crawling vices wraps around my heart,
Seeping in and turning my blood to a muddy green
Those hands you hold; neither which is mine
Those smiles you strike dead; I stand alive still
Those glances you bestow; How I wish to be the object of affection!
Yet I hold my tongue and keep present as your friend:
For they say speak what you believe
But I neither speak my faith
Nor speak to convince.
I only wait for the day
In which words are rendered no importance,
When we wish to pour our souls
Only to find holes echoing back in loudness
Our private, quiet love.
They say be brave or keep mum and suffer in silence. I see no distinction between these two: either way you love and either way you gain in reward pain. The only nuance is an acknowledgement of their requited affections, in which we place so high an importance that we forget what Love is all about.
” Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about. ” – Rumi