The mystery behind;
When you own a thing you can easily control,
But as the heart does not belong to the beholder,
who then has no power on;
The 1000-piece heart made a very wide net,
Covers thousands of miles,
It is hard to make him one piece,and
It is hard to heal.
Where there is not only a season at a time,
Rather,two seasons exist at the same time,
In sometimes more;
The heart's clock confuses raining and sun shining,
Sometimes, even just sometimes hurricanes passing,
The heart couldn't find the clue of the mystery,
Nor come back once again,
As only one whole piece.
Rather,those hurricanes,alternating places of sunrising and newly originating drops of raining,
With strange colors,
Some of them were black,
Others were just blue.
The heart does never belong to the beholder,
And no one has two hearts,ever,
And it's hard to steering,
what about if he is 1000 pieces and a piece.
Where in between these pieces,
A death keeps creeping,
The wish sometimes for that death to also growing,
The death had been an infant,
Then has become a kid,
After sometimes, got much mature,
And became so wise to bite,
Swallow the happiness,
Eat the beauty,
Drink the water of any flower and rose.
Although keeping planting,trees and gardens,
To save the rose and flower,
But the hurricanes left nothing.
"Giving up" is not a word to sing,
Never had been,
And not to be at all,
Just waking up and making a cup of cafe,
And try again.
But what is passed is already gone,
And what remains only burned oasis,
Better to close the eyes,
when passing by the places.
The mystery remains unsolved,
The heart cannot sell happiness,
And no one would like to buy fake stuff,
A heart does never belong to the beholder,
And no one accepts to host the 1000-piece heart,
And nor you would,too.
Honesty sometimes does not exist,
And when it does, it hurts,
However,it is always much more wise than lying,
And it's hard to keep a candle in a cold November rain,
And one thing in life does never change:
There is always a change.
The loneliness also remains,
Like cancer has no cure,
May be it needs a cup of pina colada every night,
Just to make the memory silent,
Just to help forgetting the pain,
Just to keeping with a lie
that there is no loneliness,
nor unsolved mystery,
But only happiness.