Maybe the wind is telling stories.
I don't know the language, yet
I know what to find.

A treasure that needs to be uncovered
Or a lost city in the clouds.
Somewhere the strife of life will not reach me.
Or maybe a handwritten story,
Telling of how the world turned cold and ignorant,
Singed at the edges by fire before the wind took it away.

Everything changes when love turns evil, doesn't it?
The eyes change and a perverted hate takes their place.
Ink may be a cure, but lies are a bandaid.

Pain comes if its uncovered, so why fix it?
Just run from it, if you cut it's head off, two will grow back, anyway.