There was a time when, often,
Emptily he wandered
Not knowing what he loved.
One June aery night,
To be clear, he didn’t fall in love with her.
With its sharp, soundless arrow,
In truth, it is Love that fell on him.
He shall never tell which came first:
The sight of a heavenly light
Illuminating her eyes from inside,
Or the sense of not being able to breathe
Another breath in her presence.
So that now, often, tenderly he wonders
What can a June night feel like
By the Danube River.