The Mystery of Love

by John Herlihy

When I was a child, love’s mystery was no mystery.

I knew not the word for this outpouring of innocence,

But I knew and freely lived the meaning of the word.

As do all the children of the world who live their love.

What is the word but a butterfly in the light of the heart?

What is this word but a firefly in the night of the mind?

The sweetness of love pours forth as waters of a spring.

Sweetness of love pours forth as the freshness of cream.

Did this feeling have a name a child could call its own?

The child doesn’t care only lives not questions its love.

To the child, everything feels new, everything a first.

Everything seems as a beginning, nothing has an end,

Children fall asleep, but for them sleep not an end

Sleep feels as if they are awake all of the time

The day eternal never ends, nor the minutes or hours

Time and life in the world, everything goes go on forever

I loved it all and loved it more and loved it most

Even though I didn't know it was this, some called love.

As I aged, love turned more and more into a mystery

First the body fell in love, what is this burning passion

An insistent zero-contained fire of love that assails me

That burns itself out, then further aroused as a phoenix.

What is this love that feels like shame, feels like blame

For this awkward physical love that now had a name

What is this love but a mystery now fixated in the mind

This love for another person that feels almost unkind

A gift of intimacy can feel as a stigma of vulnerability

Or when the blessing of love finds its alternative in hate

This love for another can feel as phases of the moon

Waxing and waning until left in the dark as a new moon

This eternal love on a scary journey into the unknown,

Destination a mystery indeed who could have known.

All the love now confirmed, sealed by a lingering kiss,

All of the love now lost that will eventually be missed.

The mystery of love that flies as spirit into the wind,

Left behind a fledgling love whose mystery is lived.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Sunday 12 October 2025