Until the last second that this life will give me think that poets are the only ones who are allowed to talk about love and lovers are not alone in never having to try. So since I'm not one of the first but, alas, not even among the latter, I try to do love to defile the value of beauty.
If there is something that shuns the love for this definition is the aesthetic form. But I think a mistake has been committed over the centuries, or at least a suggestion came from the pen of the poets that love, strengthened by their poets, but blinded by love, have seen the high in feeling like a blind man, considering only the definition of their languid droop or their desire, despite being triggered by the aesthetic desire.
I am therefore saying that beauty is always a link in the chain of love? Not me, but at seventeen Leopardi wrote his well-cousin Gertrude Cassi Lazzari: "was nice and high, delicate face, simple and graceful manners, without affectation" . The examples are endless in the literature world. So those who say that love has no face, what can you say?
What a mind!
In our daily lives, the concept has taken a path that I would compare to a mule rather than a steep trail and sweet, because although we live in one of the greatest periods in all walks of aesthetic exaltation social, we are confronted with the dubious supernatural self-styled oracles tell us that you can even fall in love with the municipal bureau of waste, which the agency is to empty on Wednesday.
belittle the importance of beauty only serves to confuse love.
I'll never love a garbage bin even though there is someone to tell me rather than I should and could do it, but if I love him I love him present as a chest full of jewels.
So he always loves the beauty and love itself, but it is love that transforms the rules of absolute beauty, giving her subjectivity.
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