Quietly we lie,
Quietly we die.
And ever so quietly,
A night goes by.
The awaited one, is often unkind.
The one waiting, is obviously blind.
Love untamed, can break a home.
Homes are more important than hearts, you know.
So he may cradle his baby,
However he likes.
And of course, he may kiss his wife!
Why wouldn’t he?
And deep inside a forest,
A whispering brook flows,
Absorbing all the sounds,
Of the jungle, it goes.
It twists and turns,
And bends like magic!
The clear waters hit every rock,
But why would you call that tragic?
A brook that flows is the one that knows,
It could have flown, and yet it bows!
Had it been fire, would it have been more strong?
Like a forest fire in the horizon,
By the grace of divine tragedies,
By the glory of earthly miracles,
The brook never catches fire,
It just flows.
The awaited is always unkind,
The seeker, blind.
If pain holds no beauty,
I don’t know what does.