Those Who Love The Most

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

The Zahir

In the hospital Love had spoken to me: "I am everything and I am nothing. I am the wind, and I cannot enter doors and windows that are shut."

And I said to Love: "But I am open to you."

And Love said to me: " The wind is made of air. The air is inside your house, but everything is shut up. The furniture will get covered in dust, the damp will ruin the paintings and stain the walls. You will continue to breathe, you will know a small part of me, but I am not a part. I am Everything and you will never know that."

I saw the furniture was covered in dust, that the paintings were being corroded by damp, and I had no alternative but to open the windows and doors. When I did that, the wind swept away everything. I wanted to cling to my memories, to protect what I thought I had worked hard to acheive, but everything had disapperaed and I was as empty as the Steppes."

--- Paulo Coelho