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Love is art in illusion,
burns in the breast, rude and cruel,
with its brushstrokes of passion,
drawing in each heartbeat a paper.
It is sweet burning, a honeycomb of honey,
whispering birdsong in calm,
in the fiery crucible of what was,
where the soul surrenders and also disarms.
Sometimes it becomes martyrdom,
hearts torn apart, passion in agony,
it is a canvas of laughter, a magical empire,
but also a river that drags and is guided.