I do not blossom,

I am frigid, cold,

awaiting the sun’s rays;

I hear silence setting

on a barren hillside, but

joyous noise at the core.

I sit here, alone.

I sit here, the only one

true to my name.

I sit here, watching

the mimics as they leave.

They get plucked,

only to die soon.

Will I be plucked?

I am latent,

I am forever.

I am unjust, yet

sometimes I bring joy.

I am overlooked

in false pretense.

I am powerful,

I am quick, I am

Not what I am.

I am Love.

–Hasan Habib