The Many

Love, as it is by many, is foolish,
When they value material over it;
That are not propelled by what their hearts' wish,
But outside senses made them to commit.
That for them pleasure would come right after,
If time puts their pieces into right place;
For nothing can outworth this arouser,
In the world of securing ones own race.
And if this upon me came to succeed,
My heart foretells its path from true setting;
That this bright color enhanced by its deed,
Will be gloomy yet matters everything.
Oh please, let it not be gone its essence,
With which our world lies with great dependence.