The great love is always assumed to be wrong.
“I don’t want to be right,” says the passionate song.
The great love is never between two
People. “I’ll never find another you”
Is what we think, but this is true
Only because something is wrong.
The world is filled with passionate hearts,
But a heart must die before it starts.
Everyone knows inside what is right;
Intricate seeing requires some light,
But morality lives in the dead of night;
Morality guides us every day.
It is who we are. Morality never goes away.
And morality and the heart are the same,
Justice and truth, our life and our name.
The great love, as we suppose, is wrong.
It wonders at the moon. It crawls along.
It is not a decision made by the mind.
It thrills and dissembles. It is not kind.
I heard its sad, inhuman song,
Beautiful and right, ugly and wrong,
Which sounded in the squeaking of a train,
In a voice, desperate because of the rain,
A voice annoyed because of the wind,
A brittle smile refusing to give in,
A secret whisper, a pain, expressed,
Which found no comfort upon my breast.
A despair, which none could see,
Killing her will, poured over me.
A song shared with no one around
Was more than a song. It was ours. A sound.
We saw things others couldn’t see.
She looked with bewilderment at me.
Our love, waking and dying—
Was a fear of a truth, betrayed by lying—
So that our truth, only our truth,
Was the one and only proof,
That something exists which is unique,
A loneliness, terrifying and weak,
Because it moves apart
From every good and perfect heart.
