Life is a difficult book to read.
Many words, paragraphs,
and meanings between the lines are
hard to understand.
You can ask AI, Google search,
or on-line dictionaries
for answers in any areas of doubt.
But some answers can only be found
through an inner search from
concrete living experiences throughout life.
Where do we go?
When we have no home to return to?
Flowers beneath concrete,
Mother, Tell me, Where do we go?
Do we ever truly know?
Or are we always pretending?
Where does the heart wander when it's lost?
Through doubts and winter frost?
Why do all days blend into one another?
Do we eventually see what we've been building? Mother, tell me.
Beyond The storm,
there lies Love, love, love,
When the sky opens,
Everything grows calm again
And all is well.
Where does it go?
Happiness, that fragile thread,
When it wavers and breaks?
Mother, tell me, Where does it go?
Why does the world seem so vast,
When we grow just a little taller than before?
What becomes of dreams that flee?
And memories we forget?
Will I always have these questions?
Perhaps I'll turn them into songs.
Mother, tell me.
Beyond The storm,
there lies Love, love, love,
When the sky opens,
Everything grows calm again
And all is well.
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