Love is a mad dog from hell, one poet said.
I don't think so. Sometimes it's a lamb
Silent. Tainted. Grazing on vertical hill of burning signs,
empty and vain.
They're sailing away. Sometimes they're back,
like the distant stars trying to find the way...
trying to show the way!
But they're not the same. Not ever the same.
Love is a temple, another man sang
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