Some say love, it is a river. That drowns the tender reed. Some say love it is a razor, that leaves the your soul to bleed. Some say love it is a hunger, an endless aching need. I say love it is a flower, and you its only seed. Its the heart, afraid of breaking. That never learns to dance. Its the dream afraid of waking, that never takes the chance. Its the one, who wont be taken, who can not seen to give. And the soul afraid of dieing, that never learns to live. When the night has been to lonly, and the road has been too long. And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong. Just remeber in the winter, far beneith the winter snow, lies a seed that with the suns love, in the spring, becomes the rose.