What is this thing we call love ? It hits us when we least expect it, it compels us to do the most unimaginable things, it is the root of all creativity and all true inspiration, it is mysterious, illusive, so intangible and undefinable it is can only really be captured by the arts. Wether in a painting, in music, in a poem or in a sculptural form, they all manage to portray what we cannot: a beautiful emotion that has roots as deep as the oldest tree and wings as broad and wide as the freest of birds.   Love…  I sigh…. I’ll let these two masters describe it.

” i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart).  ”

            E.E. Cummings


“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” Pablo Neruda

The picture above was taken a couple of years ago at the Victoria and Albert Museum, in London. 

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