I went to the garden to pick a few flowers.
One, two, maybe five hundred of them.
To pick the flowers and give them to you,
is one thing I really feel I need to do.
The thorns, one-by-one, tear my finger tips apart,
and my hands become drenched with the blood from my heart.
I dip my tongue in the blood that drips.
The flowers, one pale white like your skin.
Are now as red as my insides.
I wonder, should I put them in a vase?
Each and every last one, I picked only for you.
Each drop of blood, I dropped to prove to you.
The Flowers Of Romance,
shoot out from my heart.
But they are dead.
I put them in your care, for you to hold them there.
You can watch them blossom, from the light of your eyes.
You can see them live, from the water of your skin.
But you shouldnt let them die, because they live from my blood.
Once they die, than so do I,
so you control the key to my life. |
