Someone once told me love is like the stars,
plentiful and beautiful,
shooting like lighting across the black sky.
When the shooting stars crash
it lands on the lover's heart,
warming it to the openness of love.
That's a perfect story
but it's not my love story.
My love story starts with wishes,
the wish that you could see what I see,
the beauty of the world around me.
High mountains touching the sky with
lush green leaves covering the trees
like millions of little butterflies wings,
each stroke rustling the autumn breeze,
sailing down the river
under the white bridge,
arching over the clear water.
Such a beautiful picture
and such a painful place
that it makes my wish hurt,
swelling my heart.
Because all the wishes in the world can't bring us together.
I've searched long and hard for the one shooting star,
whispering words of hope on each twinkling orb.
Hope?
The word gets lost in translation amongst the stars with all its magic,
shining brightly within the constellations,
but where is our shooting star?
Why did it shoot past us,
leaving us to the one lone star?
The star that stands far away from the others
abandoned to confines of space.
That's where our hope lies
lost in the forgotten land of time.
