Love Poem by MICHAEL MBUWIR

A thing in the human breast,
That leaves him partially dumb,
For when in love he scarcely can rest,
As this thing makes him ever ready to jump.

But what is it they call love,
Isn't it the costly wine truly divine?
That descends from the land above,
Brewed from nothing else but the eternal vine?


Some are lulled and get drunk sheepishly,
The sour wine of lust they're made to drink.
Unbeknown to them that the pure wine truly,
Is known to those who at the lurers don't wink.

Intimacy the fruit of real union,
Comes to none but the faithful ones,
Who consider not that which men call fashion,
but who from impurity have one word, shun.

Even in today's world all is not lost,
For many are the dauntless folk,
Who do not see right as past,
But in the righteous path daily walk.