Lost, like the postcards
Week after week
In the hands of a lonely postman
Remembering his first love
While I'm losing mine
Joy is the season
Love is the cliche
The cold keeps me under my throw
Wishing that the season isn't such a joyful one
Because my love has become a cliche
Amongst the merriment
Just like the snowflakes
As unique as each of them is
Just as beautiful and pure
Still, falling becomes a sole purpose
And disappearing becomes a destiny
In all gracefulness, questioning
What then is the meaning of grace?
And you
Should know that I've been talking to a lonely postman
Because the bottom of his heart
And the bottom of mine
Have been covered in snow
We both know that it will disappear
As it has destined to be
But for now, let it be
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