Roaring water is approaching them fast;
Relentlessly rushing through their running veins;
Rapidly rising, the deadly flood, source of all their pains;
The ruthless cold pressuring the rose to wither and join the past.
She may be the only bud to resist and bloom,
Some other flowers appear to take on a levitating bent,
Surprised their last summer had already been spent,
Sorrowful greed never saving them from the solitude of their tomb.
But why should they care?
In a world where physicism possesses the utmost power;
A single plant's plan's support is assured to remain rare;
The singular flower’s withering never bothering others for many an hour.
As they remain forced to try and sprout;
While the panjandrums create other live's shadows,
Rudely ignoring the penetrating shouts;
Disguising and masking themselves with the everlasting glittery bows,
Ruining even the last one of their utopian thoughts.