Through the winter.

Some say he's never there, some curse.
His back is spiralled with all the arrows;
Arrows, once shot gathering rust.
Some say, he strikes twice;
And twice as hard the second time.
Despise, his closest friend and dearest foe;
Brought along Time, his concience that always stood.
For he had been lost and lying,
Since the days of the storm;
Never once unbecoming, never again the same warm.

Some called him a myth, a creature never understood.
Some distanced themselves, never again to be fooled.

He never meant any harm.
Had he listened to the wails of women and the curses of men, he would have abandoned himself.
Some called him a liar, a pathetic wishbone.
He never meant any harm.

Through the winters of dreary human self, he found himself again.
They understood him then, when they saw him for real.
It took the Time, ofcourse to notice the changes;
For Time, his concience would never let go.
When finally they saw through all the darkness, they laughed in their pain.
He was there, all the while;
Hiding in his shame.

Some called him unreal, many still curse.
But those of them who saw him, know he isn't a poet's imagination, nor is he any slave.
He may have betrayed many and is no stranger to the strange.
He's right there behind you;
And you know not until you fade.
They call him Love;
You'll see him again, someday.