What is this love? This romance
Of which you speak? I know not
Of its joys or marvels
I know nothing of its tenderness
Or the warmth of its embrace.
I know not its colors or its passions
Nor of its fire, so strange and far away.
I am blind to its light,
Deaf to its music,
Numb to its delight.
So how then, you may wonder,
Do I know of such things?
Again, I answer, I know nothing of it
-At least, not anymore
I think I once knew, but memories are fragile
And nostalgia is a fleeting and doubtful spirit
I sometimes remember, but they are all too vague
For too much has been lost, too little has been preserved
And often I wonder: do my recollections ring true,
Or are they but ruses of a bitter heart
Longing for what it never had?
To this I cannot assuredly say,
My only certainty is that I do not have it
And without it I know only grief
Empty joys, empty marvels, empty wonders
Ruthless hunger and cruel thirst
Cold anguish and the biting chill of nothing
Colors, all dull; passions, all barren
And the desperate sputter of forgotten embers.
I know not what love is, only that without it,
There is no light, no music, no delight.