When will love come,
and be everything for her?
What is the point for the broken heart,
A wounded bird that cannot fly.
She spread wings with no feathers,
cut like from her soul.
From that inner wounds,
she lost her voice.
Can not fly, can not cry.
Only quietly can stand,
life to suffer and extend.
Which by thin threads weaves her.
The sad bird that doesn’t fly away.
Just peacefully, contemplates.
Does she know
She means all for the cage,
where she stays?
