(no subject)
Some say love it is a river
that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love it is a hunger,
an endless aching need.
I say love it is a flower,
and you it's only seed.
It's the heart, afraid of breaking,
that never learns to dance.
It's the dream afraid of waking,
that never takes the chance.
It's the one who won't be taken
who cannot seem to give,
and the soul afraid of dying,
that never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely,
and the road has been too long,
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong,
just remember in the winter,
far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed,
that with the sun's love
in the Spring
becomes the rose.