A lover was telling his beloved
how much he loved her,
how faithful he had been,
how self-sacrificing,
getting up at dawn every morning,
fasting, giving up wealth and strength and fame,
all for her.
There was a fire in him.
He didn’t know where it came from,
but it made him weep and melt like a candle.
“You’ve done well,” she said,
“but listen to me.
All this is the decor of love,
the branches and leaves and blossoms.
You must live at the root to be a true lover.”
“Where is that! Tell me!”
“You’ve done the outward acts,
but you haven’t died.
You must die.”
