Thoughts of the light are left to pass
But those of the shadow are well engraved
Lone memories being cherished and held dear
But a soul that flickers is lifeless to the seer
Why love is impersonal yet of sentiment divine
Could the sophist after all be worthy of the laud?
Then i would rather see the light in a different time, in a different world
Where love is alive, celebrated, and awed
And not merely sung as elegies for the callous ears of the lot