Lines written under the conviction,
That to love, is sometimes a failure,
After one's fire is burned out
And the soul is burnt beyond recognition,
Judging one's doubts,
In your deplorable mood
Arise the questions, unruly and rude awakening,
Asking if love was ever adequate and good.

Griefs won't measure up to how one's feelings,
So much you beg for freedom but the broken heart remain,
Beneath the eye sack stores tears of immeasurable pains,
And through the sphere of regrets, there's a conviction never to fall in love again.

At last,
The languishing past heals
And when we thought the body is refreshed
With an abundant wealth of mind,
And one is indeed wise,
Only then will one open his purblind eyes
To another opening of miseries,
Beaming to all kinds of beauties
Until one falls in love again
And the bleeding heart continues.

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