They call it Life, this.

Sitting in the whirlwind,
Trying to sort out the mess.
They call it Life, this,
But it's too weird for me, I confess.

Looking out every once in a while,
I see storms out there, too.
I wonder if I should help them.
Or just sit tight, and do what I do.


Standing in the tornado,
Thinking of the strangeness of it all.
They call it Strength, this,
I think it'd be easier to just fall.

Looking out every once in a while,
Everyone's dealing in different ways.
Most try to buy happiness.
There are few for whom happiness pays.


Sleeping within a volcano,
I wonder if Happiness is true.
They call it Love, this,
And I did feel it when I said my "I love you".

Looking out every once in a while,
I see everyone engaged in some war.
I thought that Love was everything,
But it seems like nothing is greater than Power.


As I went through my storms,
(which came frequently enough),
I cursed, yes.
But never regretted.
Since my world was built on Love.

But looking out every once in a while,
I saw the real world.
So different than mine.
It wanders between hurt and pain,
And Love is just a matter of time.

So I wonder,

Do I give up Hope?
Or keep reaching out with Love?
Because, if this is Hell
(sure seems like)
Shouldn't there also be a Heaven above?..