Oh, when did just loving become a confession?
A secret, a weakness, a shameful admission?
Why should I keep it from you? Would you be
Offended by love you created in me
Without ever meaning to? If so then why?
I love without prompting the fire, the sky
Shining with starlight or streaked by the sun -
I love all that gives its light to anyone.
I don't ask the stars to love me in return!
It is more than enough that they still brightly burn
Unchanged by my loving, unaltered and pure
And the light they first gave me need only endure.
I ask nothing back; all I want you to do
Is know it, be gladdened, and take it with you.