How can I being myself to count The many forms of love Of mothers tending babies And fathers burning nights Of brothers standing silent watch Over their brothers rights Of sisters gone downriver And queens becoming mothers Or a prophet drawing back The angel wrath above all others I’ll take the simple love of one For whom he’s never met From whom he has inherited A wealth of intellect Just sitting by his stock of fruit Qudūrī in his hands For time is his who fills it with A humbleness that spans Eternity, and angels marvel: Now there’s a love to love