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. Some say love, it is a flower. And some its 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. And the soul, afraid of dying. That never learns to live.
And I... I think. I myself say love, it is nothing. Just nothing.. I would have often stayed up late making the own music. But I never find what the love is. Sometimes, I thought that was just human's imagination. It is possible that it is true or not true. Nobody knows that's conclusion. And then, on that account, because I had been too lonely, because waiting for the lucky had been too long, I supposed I would never find it, so that I might have decided to think the love is nothing. And now, I think it is not easy that to be even just razor. I'm not anything but can not be love. If the coming of the winter, I guess I feel so much cold in my heart, as I never rise again and I never become the Rose.