A paradox it seems, a word so grand,
Love, a noun, held close in hand.
A feeling, warm, a tender thought,
A gentle whisper, dearly bought.
But hold it there, don't let it rest,
Love's not a treasure, locked in the chest.
It's an action's flame, a verb alight,
That dances free, both day and night.
To cherish, hold, with gentle touch,
To lift and mend, to mean so much.
To laugh, to cry, with an open heart,
To share and give, and play a part.
Love's not a state, a passive noun,
But woven threads, where lives are bound.
In whispered words, in deeds untold,
Love's tapestry unfolds.
So let it flow, this verb so strong,
In every kindness, righting wrong.
For love that lives, and love that gives,
Is how the truest noun survives.
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