"For this was Saint Valentine's Day,
when every bird cometh there to choose his mate." - Chaucer
Love is a bed where every birdie comes to choose his mate;
It may be a burial place or a shade of a grove
A lonely meadow on the banks of a brook
On backdrop of dusk shivering in the song of grasshoppers,
A moonlit night bathing in slow feverish breeze
Or a dim roof hobbling in incense and wheels of colours;
Rose or leaf, touch or sting, noise or melancholy
Laughter or tear, all here a castle of memory maketh.
Dead or live, Valentine saint guards day and night all moths
Who come to meet and mitigate in search of a bed of truth.
