If the breeze could pass by,
It could see, how you walk towards the sky.
With thousands of deadly conceptions,
And that dull, dry heart with burns.
It could watch the grief, each day,
And could hear things you say,
to the inner soul and not to the people around,
And could see, how your own restrictions to you sound.
It would hate, that we are gifted with a life.
Where instead of finding happiness, we discuss about our cries.
It would think, that this life isn't meant for sorrows,
And would wish, that this beautiful life we have, could be borrowed.