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Misery
Misery
1 min
210
The song of youth is not a bunch of charming roses.
It doesn't change overnight to a sweet dream of old hearts.
It costs pains and dreams, satire and sweat.
The youths are shimmering stars; stars so cold
Because of promises the age has taken from them.
It rises among hustles and acceptance, it smells like Petrichor in the heavy air.
It craves the love that liberates but is entrapped in the static life.
Who told me these songs are pleasant? Wishful thinking of old hearts,
Who forgets their miseries once the threshold is crossed.
