Life has too many ways of making things right,
Like even in a few days of night,
I think of you like I am deeply in love,
But I don't know if it is love or insincere love.

Moreover, what if loving you is vain?
But if you're going to be in pain,
I'll be taking it away as your mate,
Yet hoping if it is destiny either fate.

A fragment between of love and fate,
That filled of greatness and fame,
Was never decided deftly,
And never been analyze deeply.

Subsequently, I never knew,
That sometimes I felt that it's too new,
To love someone bravely and deeply,
But never gave it a thought primitively.

And guess what ?

It's really never been an actual intimacy,
Although it hurts me actually,
That loving you is never been a true gain.
Yet only causes me a pain.