The world turns on love,
nothing else could be enough.
Love is not and then it is,
unchoosable but always chosen.
A man must live alone,
the mantra of a half life, little more than bone.
Loneliness is not and then it is,
unchoosable but often chosen.
Love came that he should go to death,
he hung there dying and loved with every breath.
Death would not take him, and then it did,
the unchoosable, for our sake chosen.
The world stopped, it sank to darkness,
death had won, we were love-less.
Love is, is not, and is again,
The greatest love demands
we, the unchoosable, be always chosen.