With a different kind of color
Her roses are a blur in the road to heaven
In the desert, she is my water
When I'm stuck in the middle of the Seine
Often wondering where the sky goes
When we are looking at the moon
And time flies with places to move to
I can always count on you
To accept my roses, hopelessly
In love with your hands
As well your lips which sign some sort of
Affection for my roses
Such are the rosy cheeks, that my bouquet
Seems futile indeed