Love is like the Spark of an Inferno: It repeatedly heats its own Flame To begin with it is a Wicker, Some phosphorous

for its Combustion . While it seems so innocent it is not as it is the First to Descend to Coal Becoming what Prophets invoked, Poets, The fevers of February arouse Beyond in the Nearness profound is Here All at once in all directions is tossed The Brides bouquet where it lands, a Cross, Oh Virgen of Guadalupe me Hear Calm the Calumny of the Wicked Lords Who only lend succor to the Devil.