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  And I thought it would be the same. I thought it would all be just like before, but one matter is to lean on old memories in which everything was covered in tolerance, protection and joy and even a sense of unity, and another matter, utterly different, is to witness decay. Many years had passed, and in those old days the morning sun would cast its light through the windows as if it was announcing a jolly "good morning" and the birds would perch onto the mango tree right outside, all singing like a morning choir. The rattle in the spacious kitchen was certainly not noise, but a sound that would wake you up alongside the aroma of recently brewed coffee, and just the thought of waking up to that scene would make, even the laziest soul, wake up in a rush just to experience the events that would take place right outside the bedroom.   The kitchen was the heart of that house - just like many others, I'd presume - in which early morning visits would bring along a "good mo

  Hold the time so it doesn't pass,  perhaps that way we can manage to understand who we are,  especially when we wake up under satin-made blankets,  and a ready-to-go me is no more available. It wouldn't matter how infatuated you are, in the end, they aren't coming back,  So is the end and birth of love, that mischievous thing  that sometimes we are slaves of, But don't you panic about it, even if you don't recognize it, Believe me when I say, it isn't worth it,  when it simply goes through life pecking at what it can and then we just away throw it.  See the sun over there, perhaps that's the only relief in life, What more is there to say when all around it is pervaded in lies, So don't try to convince otherwise, When you yourself have let me down, Countless times for the sake of your own crown.   Yes, we are slaves of love somehow, someway, Yet it can be smothered though not slayed, Since it seems endless And it energizes off even when it is faithless.

  HE SHE