Little white seeds of
Floating pure death,
Touched upon cleansed,
But gentle skin they
Burrow in.

With the whisper of a
Touch, so Greeting
The little white spores
Expelled upon deaths
Blossom to once again touch.

Winds whisper their elegance,
Pearly shards glide gently,
Contaminate with placid
Quietness, never seeing
But now but a flower.

To breath the white snow,
Planting upon the ever,
Blossoming whispers on
Top of skin fresh, watch the
Flower die, then the bloom
Will feed upon new soil
New bone, it feeds well as
Long as the living are fresh.