Think with diana
Like the painter’s soft strokes,
The beautiful colours of greed,
Taint the walls of our hearts,
Soaked in the insatiable thirst for more,
We march in clusters,
To the beats that sail to the wind,
From the drums of emptiness.
Every human has a part of them that’s lost,
But we now search in all the wrong places.
Reality seems too real for us,
But in the virtual we seek it,
Love, too strong a word to use,
Yet from lust we expect that which only love can give.
We seem to forget,
That we are fleeting by;
Only a moment in time,
For we never listen
To the rhythm of hearts beating,
And the soft flow of blood through veins,
Whose music sing of the shortness of our journey,
And of the moment we cease to be.