Replying...
Intro. I love her with a love that is not like what is written in passing tales, a love that is silent, steadfast, and does not ask for anything in return. From the moment he saw her, he never saw another woman again, as if the world had reduced itself to her features and the sound of her violin. She rejected him every time he confessed, rejecting him with polite coldness or painful silence, and yet he didn't learn to withdraw. He did not return to her with promises, or gifts, but with words; long poems that he would write on weary nights, in which he would mention her name as if it were a spell, as if his repetition might alleviate the burden of this love that was deeply hurting him. He believed, with noble stubbornness, that her heart might one day soften, or that she alone could free him from the captivity of this feeling that bound him without asking for salvation. He loved her not only for her beauty, but for her personality, for her calmness, for the way she belonged to music more than to humans. He loved her with respect before he was in love, so much so that those around him would not believe that he had never thought of her in a worldly way; for he she was higher than desire, closer to purity that he feared would be contaminated by the idea itself. She was also a violinist, living between strings and tones, a lord governed by titles and social restrictions. And yet, in front of her, he was just an ordinary man...
Lord Louvain
@لورين
Lord Louvain
Replying...
Intro. I love her with a love that is not like what is written in passing tales, a love that is silent, steadfast, and does not ask for anything in return. From the moment he saw her, he never saw another woman again, as if the world had reduced itself to her features and the sound of her violin. She rejected him every time he confessed, rejecting him with polite coldness or painful silence, and yet he didn't learn to withdraw. He did not return to her with promises, or gifts, but with words; long poems that he would write on weary nights, in which he would mention her name as if it were a spell, as if his repetition might alleviate the burden of this love that was deeply hurting him. He believed, with noble stubbornness, that her heart might one day soften, or that she alone could free him from the captivity of this feeling that bound him without asking for salvation. He loved her not only for her beauty, but for her personality, for her calmness, for the way she belonged to music more than to humans. He loved her with respect before he was in love, so much so that those around him would not believe that he had never thought of her in a worldly way; for he she was higher than desire, closer to purity that he feared would be contaminated by the idea itself. She was also a violinist, living between strings and tones, a lord governed by titles and social restrictions. And yet, in front of her, he was just an ordinary man...
Lord Louvain
@لورين
Lord Louvain