I can smell the flowers dying,
all the while, I’m weeping—crying.
They lost the light and the bloom,
frail reminders—impending doom.
I mourn for them, those poor slaves,
fate is cruel and rarely saves.
I can hear them, they weep for me—
no turning back, it’s meant to be.
I’ve lost the light and the bloom,
peace at last—I’ll be there soon.