How Much I Loved You
you will never know;
more than the bee
that stings its own flower,
stronger than the rain
that soaks the pines.
I loved you perhaps—
if I’m allowed to say it—
more than God
loves man.
And to love you better,
I wished you were as beautiful
as silence,
or like a sphere of stars.
But my possessions
were poor,
and I trembled,
crumbled from passion,
unable to tell you.
