Love

In lands where love's soft whispers dance upon the vine, 

Where gondolas glide and Parisian stars align, 

A wanderer roams, his heart a fiery shrine, 

Seeking through the ages that elusive sign— 

What is love, this need so divine? 

And so it rains above, may this thunder end my love, 

as he stands by Rome’s Trevi, coins cast in hope. 

Fountains murmur ancient secrets, but none 

whisper back the essence that he gropes. 

Beneath Venetian moonlight, love's tender serenade, 

In the fervor of a Flamenco that passion played, 

From atop Machu Picchu where silence is laid, 

The question lingers, never to fade— 

What binds us, what can it persuade? 

And so it rains above, may this thunder end my love, 

Attraction, trust—do these encapsulate all? 

Resonance, respect, upon these we call, 

Yet love's full essence, does it not enthrall? 

Through bustling cities and serene pastoral scenes, 

Where poets dream and philosophers glean, 

The notion of love as a vast, unseen sheen, 

Emergent as if from a deep, primal gene— 

Is it but a dream we're destined to wean? 

And so it rains above, may this thunder end my love, 

on India’s Ghats, where marigolds float by. 

Beyond the biological mire, 

Burns the ancient, indomitable fire. 

Is love merely survival, a trait to endure, 

Or a profound connection, emotionally pure? 

An open door, or an unbreachable shore? 

Through African plains and Arctic ice so blue, 

And so it rains above, may this thunder end my love, 

In bonds of family, friends, lovers secure, 

Its manifestations diverse and obscure, 

An enigma so complex yet allure. 

The backpacker learns—each relationship keys 

Into love's vast, morphing seas, 

Navigating through the heart's pleas, 

as northern lights weave magic in the frost. 

And so it rains above, may this thunder end my love, 

Each culture, each epoch spins its own rhyme, 

Love, universal, yet unique in its climb, 

Always elusive, sublimely sublime. 

The wanderer pauses, his gaze to the skies, 

Where stars whisper secrets in silent reprise, 

Perhaps love, a question with many a guise, 

Is found not just in answers, but where the question lies.