Why do we run this endless race,
chasing dreams through a crowded space?
What do we seek, from birth to dust,
beyond the bread, beyond the crust?
We labour, toil not for gold alone
our hearts are seeds that love has sown.
From love we’re born, from love we live,
yet love’s the wound we can’t forgive.
He named us, tender, frail, and true,
sentient beings through and through;
of joy and grief, of clasp and cling
of hearts that break while blossoming.
What is this love we hunger for,
this ocean crashing on each shore?
A potion spread on a sharpened knife,
sweet to taste, yet costing life.
Its flavor maybe bitter, soft, divine,
a sip of honey mixed with brine.
We bleed to feel its fleeting kiss,
mistaking pain for endless bliss.
I met a youth with haunted eyes,
ready to trade his breath for lies.
“She’s fair,” he cried, “yet loves me not.”
O foolish heart, forget her spot!
For stars unnumbered fill the skies,
each one a spark, a new sunrise.
Why end your life for love’s deceit,
when love itself can be complete?
True love is vast, as sky and sea
unbound, unowned, it simply be.
It stretches past the self’s domain,
embracing joy, embracing pain.
Love your world, your fellow kind,
let gentle mercy guide your mind.
Then truth and falsehood lose their snare,
and birth and death dissolve to air.
To love what’s right, to let love go,
to see its root, its rise, its flow
is to be free from pas
sion’s chain,
and never taste that blade again.