Come on, write to me, and tell me, I deserve writing to,
In the vagueness of tomorrow, tell me, there's no solitude
Fine things and happy things, tell me, and tell well -
Before my tender nook, dead, is marked by the bell.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Friday, 2 April 2010
We deal in hyperbole - we write in hyperbole, and even think in hyperbole. Love, and love alone, evokes hyperbole most ludicrously.
In the pangs of separation; no rose smells as sweet, nor shines as red as her cheek. No sunrise, the same magic of her sleepy morning eyes. No sound as musical, no words as lyrical as those which come from the faculty of her mouth. And when I touch another - it is not that she feels like thorns to me, but to a man who is in love, no other woman is as soft.
We deal in hyperbole.