Love is not a lightning storm,
But a delicate, brittle flower on the crest of a far away mount.
It must have it's moments in the free sunlight
And also in the shadow of the understanding and low hanging cloud.
From time to time it must be whispered to
About it's once and future beauty
And about how a lonesome drought can be a blessing.
But most of all
It must know that when it's first petal falls,
Will that moment fail to show an abscence of my eternal love.
And all I ask is that you let your rain run down from that mountain
And upon me.
So that I might feel your pain,
Delight in your delights,
And suffer in your sorrows.
Because I am the mountain on which you grow.
And I am the wind that will never blow cold.