Thought things seem to be alright,
the taste of honey is missing.
Laughter and smiles by the outside,
and a putrid soul still waiting.
Waiting for freedom of conscience,
wishing that someday will and hope
could be executed as science
so passionate as careless love.
We’re lone birds blowing on the wind
on an eternal migration,
going after an utopian spring.
Sleepy above hibernation,
they left unfixable ripped strings,
gloom, nightmares and desperation.