Why do you mourn, Anabelle
over withered flowers that fall?
How can you
when you are just a girl.
Young hearts should sing
colored dreams and sweet kisses.
Cry though never knowing why,
grieve for broken twigs
and dead branches.
For when you're old
you won't shed a tear
for galaxies of dead rose petals
dashed by violent rains
on mossy soil.
A smile and a tear
grow from one little seed, Anabelle,
blooms decorate your window
and you know you don't cry
for dried flowers,
but for yourself.
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