Hearsay, the more you forgive, the more they will love you. But every time you forgive them, you fall in love with them less and less. And the time they love you more than any other is very much the moment you decide to love them the least.

Every poet is a fake
eyewitness, peddler of make-believe hearsay,
A conveyor of love he never knew
in a city he never saw in a way to make you
feel the passion as if it were true,
He is an air-brusher of reality,
Thus a proselytizer of the Absurd:
That you can paint pictures with words;
That you can travel by verbs;
That you can conjure nouns by saying them;
That you can lead several lives within your only one.

Every poet is a fake
taxidermist, seller of second-hand stuffings
of souls that were never alive

Every poet is a fake
imperialist, would be explorer-***-colonizer
of the terra incognita of your mind

Every poet is a fake
poet

I do not just listen--
I analyze,
because the story might have
a real different ending


I do not just glance--
I observe,
for the view might be different
on the other side


It is not wrong to be careful
on what you should believe in

Verse
Why are you fighting every day?
Why are storming everywhere?
Why are we finding faults in each other?
Why am I blaming you blaming me ?

Chorus
Holding hands
As we find
Love for one another
Passing time
As we find space for each other

Verse
It’s true we faint everyday
It’s real that we get up again
It’s magical this life that we hold
As all the past passes us by

Bridge**
Let’s hold hands
And stop fighting
Let’s hold hands
And stop stomping
Hearsay is hearsay
Here my pen, here is my pen
Lets write a new page

I'll find space for you
You find space for me
We find space for one another