What is love – the question she would ask herself at night,
When on wings of shadow her joy had taken flight.
Love is but a torture, a devilish nightmare,
Persuading us to want things that are never really there.
What is love – the question she would ask herself at dawn,
When next to her sweet angel a hopefulness was born.
Love is something magical, a dreamy reverie,
That created all her shackles but somehow had the key.
What is love – the question she would scream up to the sky –
What’s the point of loving when your darling’s going to die?
Love is made to torture, Aphrodite doesn’t care,
And loneliness tastes bitter but it’s better than despair.
What is love – the question she would whisper at his grave,
For love could not have made him stay, nor could the tears she gave.
Love is something magical, melancholy, wild –
And it somehow made a woman from an angry, broken child.