Love . . . A clear mind knows its desperate need all would it give away for Love
Life: our bodies, our houses, our work are all what makes the table and its dinnerware Set for us to feast on Love (don’t enjoy the fork too much, it’s only a vehicle for Love) The Chef of Love is God, and with his very essence feeds us Only the best he does prepare though only appetizers have we yet eaten Only tasted just have we, before death, of our feast of Love
An apple is our love from mother The cinnamon? It’s father’s The sugar is our sibling laughter And roses come from daughter the cheese is Love from son the salt is every friend And wheat comes from our lover But each of these ingredients burst forth of his words uttered From the Chef himself Himself the feast of Love