A philosopher is unable to question the value of philosophy
without engaging in it. Knowledge is a pleasure, and the object
of my love is bracketed by that question.

I am ashamed by my inability to explain this, this love is ineffable,
I can say it is true (even though that is a circular redemption).
Every reason seems bracketed by the unknown, seeming
to include the unknowable, yet I try to answer for this.

All I can say is that this love transcends the universe
and has left me behind, I feel poetry is the only way we could know