When this heart sings a ballad, it has never been filled with a permanent picture.
The most that it could do, and it has been doing, is to paint the majestic sea with a backdrop of magnificent hills, having black birds chirping freely in a typical V shaped formation as if puppets being pulled by strings from the sky.
And the ballad would go on and on, somewhat leaving empty spaces-holes- in its lyrics, making nonsensical meaning.
To learn this new language by force, this heart might tremble and fumble. It might hum into the wrong notes or could even destroy the whole piece altogether creating a painful tragedy.
The scripts- unreadable, the scales-haywired, the messages-unrelatable.
But if it is destined, it shall comply to that specified tick on the clock and that specified date on the wall.
Only if it is destined,
The script would spin it’s trembleness into soft sways, bending along with the most melodious scales-be it up or down. And that is when the whole piece would penetrate its flesh gently, delivering the most perfect, specially crafted, enchanting messages.
If it is destined, it shall paint a permanent picture. Of us.
If it is destined, how can I not love you? What do I tell my heart?