After each harsh sunstroke, the breeze is always cold,
Blowing away all the burden that at one time you did hold.

The day before was vicious, but tomorrow is definitely a saint,
The wall of struggles seems very small, yet very less to paint.

Weeks can be ruthless, months may never be nice,
But the long decades of happiness will pay the whole price.

The well seems deep because of the small rope,
But it isn't more profound than our determined hope.

The beautiful hours await you, making every second very old,
After each harsh sunstroke, the breeze is always cold❤