It is gilded not in gems and diamonds, but in its own mirth,
It is begins to fill not in youth, but long before birth,
It is filled every second by an unknown hand,
One that permeates every grain of silken sand.
It fills itself to the brim, and even more,
Yet no one has ever seen it overflow,
The more it is filled, you need it all the more,
Yet it falls back on itself, until you can go slow.
It replenishes itself without any scarcity,
And never manages to ever get empty,
It swirls around itself in merriment,
That it showers on those in detriment.
It glides down your throat, and heads for the heart,
Yet, when you search, and it is found, in every part,
It fills your brain, your mind, yet doesn’t intoxicate,
It oozes its persona, that nobody can ever replicate.
It sweeps you off your feet, and takes you into street,
And makes you utter words, you will never repeat,
It nudges you forward with every new heartbeat,
And picks you up, from your every defeat.
It belongs not to you, nor to the maker,
Yet it quenches the thirst of every partaker,
For the cup of love grows upon its own self,
Every time you share a portion of yourself.
Inspired by the thoughts of Khalil Gibran on Love, read it about 7 years back, but still remember the feeling it brought about, although I don’t remember a single line.