We could barely hear her breathe, the air too thick for her lungs to knead.

You'd think she'd never make it home, she made it early really though.

Went back from which she'd come, maybe she was a gift to give

since she left alone and soon, life something she would not live.


The flowers could hardly bloom, planted again in just a few days,

before a tiny tomb, in a cradle where feathered wings won't let her lay.

And she must not be too cold, the warmest blanket she has turned down.

Closest thing to Heaven… Lilyan, not six feet underground.


She may have even heard our cries, but she won't feel the weather on her grave.

The rain she'll never know,  not with the wings that wouldn't let her stay,

And she must not be too cold, the warmest blanket she has turned down.

Closest thing to Heaven… the little girl that left at the speed of sound.