Desperation fell like rains drops on my skin,
clouding my thoughts and sheltering my eyes
from my withering dreams that died in front of me;
asking for warmpth, screaming for salvation, and whispering redemption
But with every drop of rain that fell against my skin,
bombs exploded and created perfection out of a massacre,
and the rose petals that caressed my lips were
cut and lacerated, and made me bleed like
the rivers of Egypt; dyed with sorrow and fidelity,
Yet the swan never turns black when being able
to fly makes them slowly die inside,
because the rain that touches their feathers
gives them hope of a new begining,
and their instead of their wings making them fly,
their hopes and dreams raise them high in the sky;
because a swan can never be a crow, and crow
can never be a swan, as much as it tries