To one who truly loves,
they see the beloved everywhere:
In the ecstatic flash of lightnings,
in all weathers, fair or foul, and the turgid wind
sighing around their foundations.
The days of their life are beating beads
in a ruby-hued rosary of devotion;
In far-flung tabernacles of the soul
there’s endless chanting,
while the white-gowned angels kneel down
to hold up the cup, of the holy grail of life:
and they’re prostrating themselves,
at this very minute..
To one who truly loves
no ocean can be too deep,
no desert impassable,
no ice too thick and stymieing
to finally reach that shrine;
and even if they be half-dead on arrival,
they know they can expect a miracle then.
And that Earth would herself turn over
and heaven empty out completely,
to aid in their timeless quest.
For they have all the time in the world, you see:
For you are their very world of worlds;
where they have their being, and live each day,
the place all their murmured prayers ascend to.
So you might ask, how could I know all this?
I’m saying your first mass
right now.
