The Young Lovers
The young who love kiss while standing,
Before the gate of night,
And the passersby point their fingers at them.
But the young who love
Are not there for anyone.
There is only their shadow
Quivering in the darkness,
Stirring the rage of the passersby—
Their rage, their scorn, their sneers,
Their envy.
The young who love are not there for anyone.
They are elsewhere, far beyond the night,
Far higher than the sun.
They are in the blinding radiance
Of their first love.
