The dying heart
They say, that love is at its most extreme
and beautiful, when it is dying,
and of course it is.
The swan, the loveliest of birds,
sings only once in life when dying,
or so they say at least,
and it’s a beautiful portrayal,
if not of reality, at least of love.
The culmination of a love affair
is usually the end of it,
since what then follows is depression,
usually, remorse, perhaps, and melancholy,
maybe guilt and abysmal sentimentality,
the fall from heaven down to hell,
as if love naturally was mano-depressive.
Still, the love you had, although it died,
shall always live with you forever
and remain triumphant in your memory
if all that failed was just the fallibility of all reality.