Is it love that is all whim and dream,
Merely lost, like a mariner at sea,
Whose stars too long obscured by clouds,
Have become a tragic yet hopeful shroud
As he drifts aimlessly?
Love that is solid like a stone,
Formed never by the will alone, and
transparent love goes deepest yet,
while opacity and blindness harbor regret;
if love is real, may it be known.