What is man without love?
A flapping fish with desperate eyes drying, focusing on air.
A stinking corpse, hollowed out from within.

Without love he is as poor and destitute as the crack-addicts and broken bodies,
Who crawl on the street, their minds crushed by suffering,
Senses driven out of them by their constant agonies.

He who is without love, is without meaning.
He is without breath and water and food.
Bursting lungs and raw mouth torn to shreds, tasting only pain.

Hopelessness as deep and void, as the sterile seabed beneath all the oceans water.
There even the faintest light cannot fall.
And the bones of lives decay during aeons.

What then brings and takes away that light of life that is love?
What causes this light to gather after the long night,
That can warm and save the horror-stricken wanderer?

What hand can gently place the fish back into the water?
What miracle, to resurrect the dead and what formula to give meaning to the chaos of endless change?
What hope out of deepest nothing?

Will the presence and absence of love follow one another,
As the surface of the moon scorches and freezes, obstructing itself from the suns burning heat?
Is there love, simply because there is also not love?

I am but a man, whose thirst will return as surely as a shadow lengthens at dusk.
As helpless as a fish out of water.
If only I, so unable to help even myself, could bring forth an endless spring, to end the suffering of all who thirst.