If there was love for no reason,
not for the beauty of movements
nor the mystery of glance
nor other charms that canít be resisted;
not for a chaste or depraved life,
not for the heart faithful till death you do part,
not for being a really great parent,
not for the taste superior or subtle,
not for smartness or the right instincts,
not for useful gifts
nor honesty and riches of mind,
not for heading in the right direction.

Not for slaving for some twisted complex.
Not for the guilty conscience
nor the expectations,
    however tiny and hidden from oneself,
to get anything in return,
be it just a grateful look,
not to speak of
    the rapture beyond.

Not love as an entry
in tradesman book,
but a love probably not
even aware of itself,
a love for no traceable,
    thinkable reason.
Familiar with the ways of the world
and the unavoidable fading,
yet there.

That would do,
that would really do
to found anything
    worth something.