Je was op zoek naar: what love (Engels - Zoeloe)

what is love
what is love

love
bathong

my love
ngiyazi ukuthi ngiyayithanda

love (verb)
amaconsi abanzi mamhlanj’ idili lomgcagco, idubukelwe egcotsheni libafazi bedub’ inyama lifafaza ngabanzi ehl’ emafin’ amnyamakazi liduma liklwebha kabanzi ngomphezulu ngiyesaba k’yasabeka ngiyesaba phela mabesho ebusheni bakhe bezimbiwe insela okuyiziyalo zabazal’ ekushay’ indiva ephikelela ngongiyazi bobuwula baqinisile mabeth’ indlel’ ibuzwa kwabaphambili bheka namhlanje ugcagca ngamaconsi abanzi ngaphezul’ ubundindi ngaphans’ ubulili ngomzuzwan’ ubulili kwaphenduk’ isililo lidume lamthatha ekwemhlophe ow! nansi insambatheka yomhlolo amaconsi abanzi egeleza zehl’ izimaconsi thula mntakababa, thula mfowethu thula mama, thula mzilikazi kamashobane

love poems
izinkondlo zothando

enough (love)
olwanele

you don’t know what love is
awazi ukuthi ngikuthanda kangakanani

my speech is about what is love
inkulumo yami imayelana nokuthi yini uthando

i love biltong!
ngithanda umqwayiba

short love story
"three o'clock in the morning. the soft april night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. i can't sleep, i am so happy! "my whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. i can't analyse it just nowi haven't the time, i'm too lazy, and therehang analysis! why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? is he in a state to do it?" this was more or less how i began my loveletter to sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom i had fallen in love. i began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. i spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel i had to write to order. and it was not because i tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent, but because i wanted endlessly to prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one's study and communes with one's own day dreams while the spring night looks in at one's window. between the lines i saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as naïvely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling as i. i wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if i turned my eyes away i had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. through that trellis sasha gazed at me after i had said goodbye to her. when i was saying goodbye to sasha i was thinking of nothing and was simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when i saw through the trellis two big eyes, i suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that i was in love, that it was all settled between us, and fully decided already, that i had nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities. it is a great delight also to seal up a loveletter, and, slowly putting on one's hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and to carry the treasure to the post. there are no stars in the sky now: in their place there is a long whitish streak in the east, broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy houses; from that streak the whole sky is flooded with pale light. the town is asleep, but already the watercarts have come out, and somewhere in a faraway factory a whistle sounds to wake up the workpeople. beside the postbox, slightly moist with dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a bellshaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. he is in a condition akin to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but something between. if the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of their fate, they would not have such a humble air. i, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as i gazed at it i reflected that the post is the greatest of blessings. i beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning one will be overwhelmed with

you love what you doing
wenzani manje sthandwa sami

gods loves us
onkulunkulu bayathanda