She is that flower in pinkish-red hems
Blooming amidst the silent, withered stems;
She does not need any grace of water,
But pleased to tears that have fallen over
My hand trembles, I cannot pluck her roots—
She's too precious to be in worn-out boots;
Though it hurts, I'll hope there's a gardener
Who'll place her where light shines a bit kinder.
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 11:28 AM UTC
She is that flower in pinkish-red hems
Blooming amidst the silent, withered stems;
She does not need any grace of water,
But pleased to tears that have fallen over
My hand trembles, I cannot pluck her roots—
She's too precious to be in worn-out boots;
Though it hurts, I'll hope there's a gardener
Who'll place her where light shines a bit kinder.
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