by Isolde ÓBrolcháin Carmody01 Nov 2013
There can never be anything like it.
A love surpassing the ideals of Greeks
And baffling the sexologists.
Intimacy interlaced with utter comfort
Passion and loyalty beyond legal bonds
Needing no name, and settling with none in modern tongue.
Only an obscure term, stolen from an age of decadence
An era of apparent euphemism, of knowing innocence,
Whispering to us what our shared life might mean.
But what good is a term that does not refer?
Meaning nothing to those that hear, until footnotes are furnished?
Such a neat reflection for the flavour of our love:
We know its name, and understand its nature,
Let outsiders assume in error.