What is this you speak of, this thing called love?

Is it the gentle flutter of winged doves?

Is it an ocean, as rage incarnate?

Or is it the evening, peaceful and late?

Is it like lightning, bright, shocking to behold?

Or is it the thunder, with its deep rolls?

Is it so tender, a soft, fragile sound?

Or is it brutal, neverending lust?

What if it's a story, or just a spark

That'll vanish faster than a skylark?

Just tell me, gently, what it is you mean

Because I don't quite understand, you see.