Lies About Love
by David Herbert Lawrence
We are a liars, because
the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,
whereas letters are fixed,
and we live by the letter of truth.
The love I feel for my friend, this year,
is different from the love I felt last year.
If it were not so, it would be a lie.
Yet we reiterate love! love! love!
as if it were a coin with a fixed value
instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.
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There is a root of familiarity here. The notion of letters holding a record of truth, and that truth being relevant to a time and space. I agree that truth is relative. But love? Love transcends. It grows and evolves, and in some cases dies, but it has a germaine feature even in death: that it was felt, is felt. Love is in and of itself a truth.
ReplyDeleteI am fudging my grammar here, but I believe this to be the case.