• Pink Petals fall on the graves of dead,
    When the wind blows through the trees,
    They fall and cover the graves,
    And the ground--
    Until there is no green left.

    White crimsoned roses sit in the room,
    Of the murdered and dead--
    The roses stay crisomed while the souls,
    Wander through halls begging to be set free,
    Beg and beg, but the roses continue to be crimsoned.

    Waves crash on the warm sanded beaches,
    The roaring of them echo through many places--
    But stop in the day as the waves become smaller,
    Then the sand stays warm and dry from the rays of sun,
    Then it sets and the sand become very wet and cold.

    The moon shines over all that is happening,
    It watches over the small creatures and souls,
    Of the night and lights their way to freedom--
    Those who hide from the moon stay sad,
    And in shackles for eternity away from freedom.