In corpse the lilly blooms;
the petals unfold,
but they are still with out feeling.
It is born to die.
It gives beauty and wizzens.
The lilly she bows her head, and weeps softly in the breeze.
There is no destiny,
It flows from the same misdirection that living life often gives.
Oh it closes and the sweet embrace of the night.
And then it vanishes away.