jurisprudent
07-19-2011, 09:40 AM
Human is a soft machine,
Mechanics working bad,
Construction fragile and weak,
Components in sluggish movement
Catalysed by vigour-lacking blood.
Human fuel is love
As a tender touch, a word,
A scent of flowers in the Sunday morning
Of weddings and sermons.
To keep the engine going,
To keep it running and dynamic,
Please look for a love station
To fill your tank and light the car,
Yes, you will have to.
Love stations have no demarcations on maps,
No roads to find them standing by,
You will need an emotional detector to find them –
A hand clocking at the right direction,
By asking inner questions –
Painful, but so important.
Love stations offer fuels of no price,
Just pour one into your tank and let go,
Your pocket, your purse will never be afflicted.
The cost to count for love, though,
Will not be a quarter of silver or gold,
or a bank account, or a roll of banknotes –
Just recall the old gentleman Shylock of Venice,
And the price of his bond,
This is the price charged by love stations,
A pound of flesh, your own flesh,
Why not – a pound of your soul,
Weighed up by the standards of divine grace.
Mechanics working bad,
Construction fragile and weak,
Components in sluggish movement
Catalysed by vigour-lacking blood.
Human fuel is love
As a tender touch, a word,
A scent of flowers in the Sunday morning
Of weddings and sermons.
To keep the engine going,
To keep it running and dynamic,
Please look for a love station
To fill your tank and light the car,
Yes, you will have to.
Love stations have no demarcations on maps,
No roads to find them standing by,
You will need an emotional detector to find them –
A hand clocking at the right direction,
By asking inner questions –
Painful, but so important.
Love stations offer fuels of no price,
Just pour one into your tank and let go,
Your pocket, your purse will never be afflicted.
The cost to count for love, though,
Will not be a quarter of silver or gold,
or a bank account, or a roll of banknotes –
Just recall the old gentleman Shylock of Venice,
And the price of his bond,
This is the price charged by love stations,
A pound of flesh, your own flesh,
Why not – a pound of your soul,
Weighed up by the standards of divine grace.