Love is a fire that burns away unseen; it's a wound that stings, though never present; it's a discontented contentment; it's a pain that doesn't hurt, though it bursts at the seams. It's a lost wish, not the wishes that teem; it's a solitary walk in a mass event; it's never being content to be content; it's a care that's found only when in need. It's a constant longing to be trapped by desire; it's for the winner to serve in their victory; it's a loyalty to those who'd set us on fire. But how can friendship be held in high esteem by human hearts—to be so required— when Love conflicts itself so frequently?
Luis de Camoẽs (1524-1580) Translation by Prontbard (2023)