As the gray wind blows, the dark trees grow,
but the poor flower slowly wilts.
Yes, it’s all alone, this small dying rose,
and it’s petal gently tilts.

It has longed for life, which caused great strife,
which made its leaves soon die.
It’s all alone, this dying rose,
listen to its cry.

It cries through the the rain, it cries through the breeze,
but its calling will surely fade.
And it’ll dry as ash, and all at last,
without a farewell bade.

The trees, they whisper, and the winds tell tales,
and they gossip about the Earth.
It’s all alone, this dying rose,
none in nature seeing its worth.

Its color blanched, its petals dry,
it eventually gave up too
Because the wind’s words hurt, and the trees’ rumors crush
and the rose knew what it had to do.

As the gray wind blows, the dark trees grow,
but the poor flower slowly wilts.
Yes, it’s all alone, this small dying rose,
and it’s petal gently tilts.