Philautia

 

They show how love must look to be true, Love for God, for riches, for the world, but never for you.

The first love, and all they half-knew, leaves you flying empty, through and through.

There are two kinds of loving one's own name, one builds a shrine to vanity, the other tends the heart's flame.

The first is hunger that demands a crowd, that shouts "look at me" too loud.

The second is quiet and whole, It says, "I am" — and that completes the soul.

Philautia does not boast, nor chase inferior fame, it offers gentle compassion without a name.

To love life first, in sense of the divine, is where all hymns combine.

Not two halves searching to be complete, but wandering souls, sparking hearts, that meet somewhere in the street.

Self-love is ground for seeds to bloom, how one learns love — like a flower, opening, precious and soon.

To love life is a journey and a choice, and the liberation of fears, where virtue and beauty finally speak through tears.

To embrace vulnerability in love is the only solution, removing all obstacles in conclusion.

Philautia is the language of pure consciousness, to rise above this world of obnoxiousness.