I see people around me found love alive, and they've been busy nurturing it. I've been busy thinking "How to love?" To me love comes only when someone or something dies, and turned to longing. Yesterday I found a strange limping cat He's smelly. Yet I want his paws on my cheeks. Why do I want to make his life better? Is this love? The other day I see a pangolin died Their tiny hands burning among ashes I cried. He's something I never get to know. Is this love? I found love long ago Within the song of a lonely singer Between his handwriting and your gentle carres And in the quite moment after her laugh Where will I find love tomorrow?