They say, I must let go of the destiny that was never written; But how could I abandon the vine I have waited to blossom, I have yearned to see it's forbidden flowers, I have kept it to cherish, not shrivel I wished it a long live, Not be dormant; But in the end, I could only desire that this wasn't a metaphor to understand, This wasn't a poem to connect with, This was the truth, So the vine could be centuries old.