Withered flower, on you wilt,
In the garden angels built,
Your weeping petals their repose,
Drifting, drowning red, red rose.
Until the day your earth it dries,
As water weeps from soulful eyes,
And whispers tell of dry to be,
The dirt below eternity.
My eyes have seen your gustful ways,
As poor sad flower sways and sways,
Do not die, its time to grow,
As nesting birds their heart they sow,
And angels dance upon your thorns,
Resting for the early morn