How love works its silly ways, weaving its tales and spinning its gears. It sings to us, the finest music to our ears.
Like a grand clock, it creaks and clicks, turns and ticks.
When it has reached the end of its story, of this day, it is wound again by all of us, to tell such tales to the newer age.
Every generation, every people, will see the same stories of love, told as vigorously as if they are the first to hear it.
History tells us the same woes, epics, and dramas.
We laugh and smile. We cry and dream.
We all let love sing the same lullabies and hymns again and again. We all know that it will sing, for another day brings new dawn, life, life that will listen.
It brings new minds, all of which will be taken with the stories. We are people, made of subtly, born of passion, and wanting glories.
We are creatures awash in infinite complexity, and for that we are cursed, if uniqueness is a necessity.
Can not we try, though we will fail, to learn one another, despite such ail?
We are young, and still imperfect. But we are bold. We are afraid of being different. And we are old.
We love one another until the sun sets, and all are left to hold our regrets.
Alone we must die, but not without a single thought; that we have loved, and that means a lot.