I suddenly feel an urge to write poem, and here goes:
Symphony of Life's Love and Death's Hatred
Life is like a vagrant bird,
Who travels weakly, tiredly;
The sun beats cruelly on its frail structure,
The rain strikes hard on its naked body,
Still, it plows through the elements,
Praying they let it survive another day.
It finds respite from the shade of kind trees,
And sustenance from compassionate rivers;
On and on it flies, weakly, tiredly.
It never gives up,
For it has a purpose to achieve,
And the purpose gave it strength to go on.
Year turns into years,
Spring turns into winter;
The search has been long and lonely,
Though it can now give a content sigh,
For its purpose has been achieved,
That is to return to its flock.
Life and death are inseparable,
Woman and man they are made to serve;
With fate's hand turning,
The tapestry is filled,
And so weaves the tale of Love,
In the life of Hatred.
Love gave all to Hatred,
Substantiating her feelings for him;
Yet Hatred denounces her,
For he felt reluctant to accept her,
For he felt inferior for her care,
And so, he abandoned her in a cold night.
In the long years of absence,
Hatred returned to whence he came;
He found Love was still waiting, alone,
Though she had long left the world,
Mourn did Hatred till he dies,
For in life and death, Love and Hatred are one.
—PhoenixFire
Symphony of Life's Love and Death's Hatred
Life is like a vagrant bird,
Who travels weakly, tiredly;
The sun beats cruelly on its frail structure,
The rain strikes hard on its naked body,
Still, it plows through the elements,
Praying they let it survive another day.
It finds respite from the shade of kind trees,
And sustenance from compassionate rivers;
On and on it flies, weakly, tiredly.
It never gives up,
For it has a purpose to achieve,
And the purpose gave it strength to go on.
Year turns into years,
Spring turns into winter;
The search has been long and lonely,
Though it can now give a content sigh,
For its purpose has been achieved,
That is to return to its flock.
Life and death are inseparable,
Woman and man they are made to serve;
With fate's hand turning,
The tapestry is filled,
And so weaves the tale of Love,
In the life of Hatred.
Love gave all to Hatred,
Substantiating her feelings for him;
Yet Hatred denounces her,
For he felt reluctant to accept her,
For he felt inferior for her care,
And so, he abandoned her in a cold night.
In the long years of absence,
Hatred returned to whence he came;
He found Love was still waiting, alone,
Though she had long left the world,
Mourn did Hatred till he dies,
For in life and death, Love and Hatred are one.
—PhoenixFire
