Blooms were swaying
In a bittersweet melancholy, they drifted
Peck, peck, peck
And peck, with the wind they blew

The blooms were iridescent
With the pale moon shinning
And the winter gale, blew ever so soft
And the cuckoos, howled

I lay on the bloomed carpet,
Blood dripped,
The silver shone
Pooled, in crimson dyed flowers

They swayed, and they shook
Crushed, dejected – like me
Moon shone on my flower grave