What is the face of such love?
At least I know the circlet,
circularly circling
the circumference;
I know its course is that of a
circle...
I am pretty sure I am in the 7th line,
well, now in the 8th, if even when in another,
we are allowed to count it all as a whole.
But, numbers will just be numbers after all,
so let's just end this here, in the 11th.
Her eyes do not always shine,
as a compass, her nose does not always point to the north,
my attention is captured by her silence,
the complexion of her face dims,
from shock, usually her lips quake,
they shirr, frown,
as if giving evidence, same as that of the
beginning of winter.
Oh, design!
Here, now in the 21st line,
one thing I discover,
and long (will it) lasts to all who read it,
the longest it will last to all who live it,
for life it brings,
to all whose daily linen vesture
love is!
Her beauty is not romantic,
the countless stars surpass it by far.
Her hands do not reach and warm,
not like a tropical sun, even when it--------sets.
Her voice cannot take down the
single
break
of a wave.
Her mind flies,
and yet, it cannot blow a sweet whisper,
as that of a rain
drop.
Stop the counting of lines,
stop all wisdom of men,
stop the light of my eyes,
stop this blabbing of fool,
even
stop the breath of my soul,
for
My love is not to be compared,
she is not to, anything, be paired.
My love will ever love her.
