Nature repairs it's own.
Thus, leaving love to man alone to fiddle on his own.
Intellectuals bury the notion of union,
Beneath paper piles and anxious sighs.
Ordinary men recline over thine,
Of trees like pine and heart-leaved figs.
To come to sorts with verbal raise,
And lie bedded soft on lovelier warm.
Love we created, but never repaired,
'cause we never knew we messed it up.

© Muhammad sanee