Behind the horizon

there's a frozen lake.

If we both reach it,

what difference will it make?

Hands shaking, our hearts stone-cold

against our ribcages slowly beat.

Together, broken pieces will not mold;

incomplete even after we finally meet.

Fragments of the soul shattered,

like a flower vase made of glass.

Across the floor they are scattered,

just waiting for some time to pass.

Wrong moment and wrong place;

before, you didn't think much about that.

Shall I hope for a different meeting?

A pleasant one this time, instead of sad.