We are the flowers,
Our earth is the tree.
Our roots are buried
And entwined with her.
She is our mother-
We are merely servants,
Children, and carefree-
She is unceasing for us.

She gives as we take,
She heals,
And we break.

We slumber and we are nurtured
And we renew,
But our mother is never serene.
She is always working,
Always giving,
Always hoping that we might thank her.
Oh how the flowers affect the tree…
She is unceasing for us.

She gives as we take,
She heals,
And we break.

She could die from no repose,
She could shrivel and wither.
(Fault of the flower)
If only we gave a little:
A new seed, a cleaner soil,
She could sleep.
(Yet we still suck the nectar)
But as our mother
She is always unceasing for us.