She was poetry, a sublime song,
but I, illiterate of deep love,
I did not know how to decipher her fecund language,
nor read the verses that her soul imprints on me.
With clumsy ignorance, my passion oppresses her,
incapable of understanding her profound mystery.
She, an open book of bottomless beauty,
I, a simple apprentice of the rhyming alphabet.
But with patience and care, I was spelling out
each gesture, each phrase, each glance,
until I managed to decipher her beloved essence.
And although I still have a long way to go learning,
at least I can now read, in love,
the love poems that her soul is writing.
