Why shall we stay
at the end of the day;
What made us leave
What does it mean to live?

What to promise after pain?
What to seek after regrets,
To laugh after tears;
To see when rain clears.

Is he a child, a sonnet?
All his paint was hidden in the sky,
The colour of violet with melancholy,
The one love to be met.

Is she a child, a poet
Her fantasies last as ever;
But not knowing to write
She shall learn over the night.