Weaving Spider webs on dried petals
Each one as yellow as the sun.
There are centuries resting on each
One
Of
Them,
Some become black when I cough.
The flower is made up of seven,
When it use to be eight and nine.
Those petals should be delicate,
But I only feel cracked rocks.
Its stem goes down to hell,
Along with any trace of you.
The flower is no more.

Like a dry petal,
Neither is my love,
For you.
Goodbye oh yellow sun.