It would be hard for one to believe

that no flowers bloom in the spring,

the waters of all seas are still,

there are no fish that swim.

The rays of the midday sun are cold,

this planet standing immobile,

for you have told the one who cares,

he may no longer love you.

The preceding is fantasy we know full well,

for logic tells us different.

We know of course the awakening spring,

of rolling seas with fish that swim,

and the warm noon sun of an earth rotating;

can thus logic also say, stop loving.

Love, what dimensions is it made of.

Is love merely a burning,

twisting and yearning desire,

or does love equal in passion

the fierceness of a raging forest fire:

is love real,

is love true,

is love beauty,

then, what about you.

You, only you, for whom it is meant,

were I to say, "I love you".

For me, my very dearest, the day would start anew.

A fresh golden dawn awaken the sky,

the most beautiful flowers bloom.

Deeply would I breathe the cool refreshing air,

and slowly lift my eyes to the blue,

only to sink on my knees in prayer,

and give thanks for loving you.

HERBERT HOLZBAUER

© JUNE 1961