“Torn, in the middle of the meadow,
At a clearing with no clear arrow,
The heart speaks of doubts
Unable to guess its whereabouts.
No compass will suffice,
At least the heart knows this,
For the unknown spins the needle
In a way that can only be called idle.
The earth remains still and silent,
But a heart that seeks miles to no end
Knows that, even afraid, it has to try,
For wings might get broken but they still want to fly…”