Love ,Divine Love

Love, My love for him is the love of that bird that thrust its chest on a rose bush thorn and made white rose a blood-drenched red rose to make up the young man happy, just happy so he pleases his maiden who just demanded a red rose in that frozen winter, and the of the last song the bird sang to cheer up his broken heart when the maiden threw it under the horse carts wheel in which she mounted holding on to her love of life, leaving him to stand and stare. The love and death of that bird seem to be fading in moments, moments like the turning of huge steel wheels of a train that passes the level cross, they had one length and one rhythm...She thought.

Love, for her, was not the prince who met the princess, and then they lived happily ever after. Her definition of love varied ..it ranged from the smell of sulfur or phosphorus coming from the young boy who took his life when he lost his love...

To that of the man who was crying over his dead wife who died leaving a tiny baby by her side with fever and infected uterus ...so young so beautiful even when life departed her body.

Is one's love greater than others or is one form of love unique and another different. Each kind of love has a different interpretation and passion and fire. Love is sky and ether for her, it is freedom of wings of thousand doves that fly ....so swiftly never binding, never expecting never demanding always giving, and never doubting or questioning.

She could not say Radha's love was any better than Meera's. Radha and Meera would have given up anything to be with Krishna, but there was nothing physical in such aspirations and it existed beyond distances, situation, the being, and the nature of existence itself. She could more relate to Meera who sang along the roads of Mathura lost in her love, each word she sang had the fragrance and sweetness of unconditional love that even God could not resist ...

Magdalena was the first and favorite of Jesus's disciples, no history or religious text would praise her and reduce her to a prostitute when her Gospel was the best and great for it had her passion for Jesus, his reverence for her, and their love ...She could wash his feet with her tears and wipe them her long blonde golden hair. Such adoration and expression of love is the greatest prayer according to her.

To her love Upagupta had for Vasawadetta was more than the love Vasawadetta had for him. when she first put her beautiful lotus feet on his chest and fell, not knowing she almost stumbled and stamped on a monk asleep under the starry sky and was stubborn enough to demand his love at the cost of her life. But it was the love of the monk who came years after as he promised and just took care of her mutilated body filled with pus and maggot which was thrown out ..by the same men who fought for her, adorned her in her prime with jewels, left home for her and enjoyed her ...

But she died in the monk's very arms as she wished, peacefully in bliss beyond pain...Love has no definition, narrative, rationale, or comprehension. It is not the sweet nectar ...but water pure water one never gets tired of.

She was sure everyone at some time frame would have loved ...deeply ..vehemently and all love is not gaining and some love finds its completion in losing and giving up. Moving away from the loved object 

It is the happiness in despondency when one choose your love to be selfless and embalm it in one's innocence.

But sometimes people chase behind the object of love, in lust or infatuation which reduces it to nothing but body and senses The festivity for the senses and its delight and desire of the flesh.

But is love too much an intellectual attribute,?To her, it is the product of heart and attraction and appreciation beyond boundaries beyond mere human convictions 

Love has its glory when it involves pain.It made Rumi and Omar kyayam , and Tukha Ram and Surdas .It made sages, saints, leaders, and knights and in its real drunkenness people have given life and taken a life.

Puri of Jagannath would never be created if a king and a hundred sculptors would not have left everything they had; wowing celibacy and focusing to make that art happen.

Is it just an act of sublimation ..no it is sacrifice and oblation. Every such beautiful art is a prayer or hymn itself.

Love to her is something beyond God, for she was a writer. A writer who has God's signature on his or her heart that makes them bleed love and light. They are the medicine to so many souls.

Love is magic ...It made Kalidasa sit in exile and loneliness and quote his masterpiece, his letter to his beloved and ask the clouds and Breezes to take it to her. Ujjaini throbbed with his love those days.

It made Seneca carve his philosophy and bring out stoicism and irony a contradiction ..

Love made Beethoven seek Mozart and make his compositions and notes heavenly. Love made Akbar create his own religion which history forgets and never mentions.

Today love is often a one-night stand, a booty call, a dating site propaganda. Love is reduced to convenience and comfort and in the name of love humans reduce themselves to animals and there is an overt display of affection when inside people fought like cats and dogs. There are no Lions but monkeys in love where it has no meaning, no purity.

She never looked at society with glasses of moral policing but love is not a street show or car sex it is quite a deep feeling, care, protection, and concern.

Every love is not made in heaven, but love makes heaven. It makes life beautiful and meaningful and worthy, some love finds its place in history, and it becomes tales in legends to be told.

Love is abstract but simple. It is the recreation of this human or any kind of life's presence. It is a point of inert matter and it is also the cosmic dance of waveforms. It creates and annihilates. It is the natural rhythm and music and it is ultimate silence where the universe entangles with the creator ...

Love is divine ...to her Love is her and she ...the love ...