raghav chopra August 10, 2006
Tags: destiny
What price do you put on your heart ?
what cost can you pay for your dream ?
pay a heavy price, put a heavy cost
for then you will hold on.
And you must hold on,
always hold on
for the rest is just sand slipping through your fingers.
Pain is temporary
chicks dig scars,
but glory, that lasts
forever.
So step up,
take a stand
put it all on the line,
and take the chance.
But be aware,
be sure
for you have all to lose
but also be aware
also be sure,
for you have even more to gain.
life will bring you down
for that is its destiny
but what is yours ?
It is in the journey some say,
and others justify the end
but as you reach the end, and as you reach the top
as you climb those last stairs
you must find for yourself
the key to that door.
Winning is an art,
but i am no artist.
I am a man no more
maybe a dev, maybe a demon.
A messenger is what i am
a pigeon flying its predestined course,
carrying a package whose worth is unknown,
immaterial, for him is it the journey or the end ?
For whom does he chart that course ?
bound in its freedom
unfound, yet belonging to someone
is it blessed or damned ?
in its eternal search
its existential quest.
For is not its identity just that flight,
is not he defined by that course ?
the flight is the open sky
the flight is his karma
and the end,
well that is just a cage.
a meaningless interlude
an intermission, till it resumes
its destined search,
for a meaningless, unrewarding end.
It’s search for a meaning.
what cost can you pay for your dream ?
pay a heavy price, put a heavy cost
for then you will hold on.
And you must hold on,
always hold on
for the rest is just sand slipping through your fingers.
Pain is temporary
chicks dig scars,
but glory, that lasts
So step up,
take a stand
put it all on the line,
and take the chance.
But be aware,
be sure
for you have all to lose
but also be aware
also be sure,
for you have even more to gain.
life will bring you down
for that is its destiny
but what is yours ?
It is in the journey some say,
and others justify the end
but as you reach the end, and as you reach the top
as you climb those last stairs
you must find for yourself
the key to that door.
Winning is an art,
but i am no artist.
I am a man no more
maybe a dev, maybe a demon.
A messenger is what i am
a pigeon flying its predestined course,
carrying a package whose worth is unknown,
immaterial, for him is it the journey or the end ?
For whom does he chart that course ?
bound in its freedom
unfound, yet belonging to someone
is it blessed or damned ?
in its eternal search
its existential quest.
For is not its identity just that flight,
is not he defined by that course ?
the flight is the open sky
the flight is his karma
and the end,
well that is just a cage.
a meaningless interlude
an intermission, till it resumes
its destined search,
for a meaningless, unrewarding end.
It’s search for a meaning.
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