He didn't like the flowers
that sprouted beneath my collarbone.

He hated the red oak
and the fruit that I'd grown.

So I plucked every petal,
brought sheers to my throat
No longer my haven,
I was a garden of smoke.

Now he holds my wilted pieces
with a face of disgust
and decides an empty garden
is just too much fuss.

His face cracked
Every wrinkle a ravine
A broad smile of marble tombstones
Rolling his sapphire ivory eyes

I'm ninety three
He chuckled...  Ninety three
Yes,  it goes fast son I'll tell you how fast
I've only as many memories as you

To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream"

Thousands of light flakes of crushed gold
for its blossoms,
Trimmed jade for its layers of leaves.
This flower has the air of scholar Yen Fu.
How brilliant!

Plum flowers are too common;
Lilacs too coarse when compared.
Yet, its penetrating fragrance
drives away my fond dreams
of far away places.
How merciless!