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Once the troubador played, singing, Who would know aught of love?
And he sang:
You would divine the mystery of love.
But where will you discover it unless you pursue it within yourself?
The serpent whose limbless body is bound to the earth
cannot unmask the secret of flight.
If you would truly regard the ardor of love, turn your eyes
within toward your soul.
For the soul and love are joined, as the air and earth are joined.
In the well of your hopes and desires resides your voiceless
arcanum of the heart;
Yet as embers dreaming beneath the ashes your soul dreams
of fire.
Keep faith in such dreams, for within is concealed the key to love.
Your want of love is the instinct of the infant suckling in hunger at
a mother's breast.
Does the infant understand its hunger, that it cries aloud?
Yet is it not comforted at the bosum of she who gives
it life?
For what is love but to suckle at the breast of the soul and
and drink its warmth?
And what is it to love another, but to discover the soul within
them, that you stand naked before it as an infant and find
therein that acknowledged succour?
Only when you drink from the well of your soul will you indeed sing.
And when you have beheld its infinite splendor, then you will
begin to see.
And when the soul will claim your heart, then will you
truly love.
© 1999 by J. M. Pressley