Call me, love

What is love to me?
Is it hidden in the morning trees,
or does it, like a bird, take flight?
Is it in the hands of your delight,
or perhaps it only comes at night?
When you're down and weary,
lost within an empty fight,
call me, love -
I’ll hold you in my arms, that is.

And if I die, will I become a story,
like I heard it someone say?
Or will I live another morning
in the hope of all your might?

What is love to me?
I ask and hope you answer,
in the days there are to come;
when we together hold the answer,
will it ever be confirmed?
Show me gentle mornings,
soft like summer nights;
and if you’d know the answer,
whisper it to me at once!
And if I find it on a random Tuesday,
hidden there between the dimming lights
there will be no doubt about it
that you can call me - love.