Love is a flower that seems to have this sort of sour.
A sort of dull, but sweetness that lingers.
Here I am dancing with the singers.
You bloom as the music is in you.

Then you fall as the music turn to blues—Are you a moon?
Are you swayed by the night as it passes with the swiftness light?
As you spin around—Am I not the fool that is spinning in you?
Am I not—Am I not—Enough!

Love is a flower that grows and grows.
It grows so much it hurts.
It hurts so much—It’s love! Is love supposed to hurt?

Your rosey vine with many sharp thorns—
I must be careful of those who are torn—
They sway and they sway— I  will not be swayed away.
I will not—And I will not—love like a flower.