Real love sustains it self, it is enough for it self.
It is all that it needs; it is the greatest joy, the greatest mystery of being, with all of the quenched answers.
All is contained, all is free.
Even a forest of trees of knowledge could not tempt it.
In real love we phantom our depths, the mysteries of our being as it is, in shared harmony with life, with God, with our loved ones, with our self.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem