Love is said to be soft
like a sweet and tender word.
Love is said to be harsh
and often kills happiness.
She is called hankering and longing
She is called a rescuer when in distress
I say that love is like a flower
the sun scatters her beams upon.
She is the heart, so anxious and fragile
so insecure and delicate;
She's the dream dreading to wake up
because she will then learn the truth.
She awaits the one who wants to pick her now
the one who will steal her tears.
She's so afraid of fading too soon
before having truly lived.
And when the night's so cold and lonely
and when the waiting lasts too long,
then just ponder that happiness is only
for those who long for it intensely.
Just ponder that bitter winters
and thick layers of snow
have never prevented
the rose from surviving them.