Love: A Riddle

It’s the love of Marduk for Tiamat,

Of Xanthippē for Socrates,

Of Antony for Cleopatra,

Or Abelard for his Heloïse;

The love of Olive Oyl for Popeye

(Not Mexican Pete’s for Eskimo Nell!)

The hopeless love that knows full well

(Like Elon, squandering the sky).

It’s sui generis—hapax legómenon,

Here today, tomorrow gone,

Quite like those others. All the same,

You’d laugh if I conceded its real name.

Perhaps you'd smile yourself to sleep!

You must hoe, though, if you would reap.

Sunday, June 14, 2026