It makes me wonder
how many words must've been killed;
how many tales left untold
how many poems left unwritten
When a pen was forced to stop.
How many flowers would never know
how beautiful they looked
How many lovers would never know
how intense were their love.
How many eyes would never know
how sweet were their tears
and how the wind would never know
the power of it's music.
But those words,those tales,those poems
which dies,untold, unwritten
must've been the most beautiful ones
since they weren't written but Felt with a heart.
The heard ones might be sweet
But the unheard, unwritten;are the sweetest