Silent hills speak not; nor does the gentle rose.
Odd that life's innocence sleeps,
Whilst humanity's need grows
As with a loss of faith she weeps,
From love she strays,
Whilst he longs to sooth her depression,
Cowardly and cold, he prays
She will not with aggression,
Speak of hate, when truly she loves.
For know he well of humanity's distress,
The tainted love of words, as free as doves
That innate desire to confess;
As if love doth not exist unless we declare it.
Yet, it does. For what is love without the tender touch of lips?
Or eyes locking, why is not that confession fit?
Tender looks are better than a few spoken quips.
A man may marry one lover
Because he confesses, "Oh, love of my life!"
Yet, last week he shared a gaze with another.
And love her more than his new wedded wife.
And so there be the moral!
No one can love with honesty
Without so much as quarrel;
For love cannot be measured modestly.