What is this path we blindly tread, With dreams that bloom, then wind up dead? Do stars not weep for all we lose, Or is it fate we do not choose? Why must the heart still softly beat, When joy and grief so often meet? A laugh, a tear — they sound the same, In life’s cruel, with loss and flame. Do prayers just vanish in the skies, Or do they echo in disguise? And when we shatter, veiled in grace, Who counts our steps through each hard place? Is love a light, or fleeting ghost, A flame we chase, but lose the most? Yet still we breathe, and still we try — To live, to hurt, to question why.