• I am giving up; my throat is dry.
    It would have no use to pretend and lie.
    The wind passes by my ears, sending
    a kind sound. The melody rings a deep
    meaning that brings me down to sleep.

    The trees would sway around me,
    giving the signal to fly away,
    that I could only wish I may.
    Through a song that sweeps me up
    to my feet, I dance to get very far away—

    A flower may bloom, but then dies down
    only to be replaced by yet another one.
    In a moment of thought, I can pretend
    that it is you—that may cause me to land
    on the ground, and my spirit to ascend.

    The wind would pick up, caring unlike you.
    My flower in full bloom is not red but blue.
    I am not like a rose, but a lily floating
    gradually in the water—upright hoping,
    filled with so much tender, deep longing.

    The shade you may see is not of ill sanity,
    but the blush of a fresh plucked cherry—
    It is like that of a forlorn bird in its nest,
    stained with a wondering affection;
    a passive contour of a heart’s awareness—