The tingling sensation felt in my fingertips.
The crevices of our hands joined together by an inseparable bond.
The excitement and commotion caused by the fluttering insects leaping in my stomach.
The abnormal pulse that my heart produces when glancing at your beauty.
This is the chant of love.
Too many times, we believe that love is a cruel, blood thirsty creature,
Evaluating the weakest targets to become the next prey.
Too many times, we mistaken the face of love with heartbreak;
But we are often mistaken by the misinterpretation of our ears,
Which focus on nothing more but the details.
One may only find Love's tribe by none other than the Chant.
Its natives, yet spread across the corners of the globe,
All speak in a foreign tongue that only Love's Indians can comprehend.
Those who engage in the Chant often decorate themselves
In the most elegant of tribal preparations--ranging from beauty to desiring odors.
These Indians aren't given a place to preserve their kind, however.
They are out and about, roaming the streets howling each verse of the Chant with hope.
Look around, we're everywhere. You, Me, Her, Him, Us.
We let the voice of our ears do all the talking when Love is spoken from the heart.
The Chant isn't as loud as we perceive it to be.
For you see, we are all Love Indians.