Perhaps here, written
in the dying stars, wishes
are not only words.
On the thatched roof of my house, you and I lean on each other, offering wordless comforts and silent promises. Here, in the place I onced hated but now view as the golden fairyland, I allow myself one more wish. That, perhaps, here, in this timeless second minute hour, we can stay looking at the stars, together, forever. It is an infinite and undoubtedly unrealistic dream. But, just this once, away from the cars and traffic of the city, sitting here alone with you, I allow myself to indulge in childhood fantasies once more.
Chaos of Life 