In the Superimposition of the Unseen

 
 You want—
 all the love in the world
 to fall at your feet...
 Tell me truly,
 where will you find
 love that is real?
 The love of servitude finds only the servitude of love.
  
 True love—rests well in museums.
 Playing the shameless rival
 to the skilled cat burglar,
 sometimes, renting out your heart
 to that museum, if you should
 find that jewel,
 do not scorn it, never...
 Love, once lost
 in the sulk of neglect
 never returns—
 so proud is its heart!
 Keep that treasure of tenderness tenderly.
  
 I know,
 'someone' or 'some people' perhaps
 will die laughing at this.
 They say,
 what does it matter!
 Lose one, find another! How lovely!
 Love's hand leads to love's exchange of hands!
 Modern love—
 lives in the hand, not the heart!
 So much within reach, yet unreachable when you reach!
  
 The thought comes—
 these too love the masks of humans, love within that masquerade!
 They call their rib bones, with theatrical sincerity, by the name of heart!
 When the body ends, the mind ends in a flutter! Love—flies mind to mind, moves body to body.
  
 Bodiless feelings,
 burning in bodies of paper
 in fire's blazing union,
 mingling with the fresh scent of burning,
 remain invisible.
 One who sees the invisible—
 I call him lover!
 Though if it remains unseen,
 that too is good!
  
 Let feeling—
 meet its death,
 but let it
 not become servant!
 Death is the only address for feeling born without debt.
 To be born feeling in death's debtlessness is sin itself.
 That sinful joy
 is greater than virtue!