Flower by flower, she sings her voice away,
the marigolds and poppies are in bloom.
Around her neck they're growing,
disturbing every tune.

And with every song she learns by day,
her old gardens are cast aside,
to show her vines have ripened,
her beauty no longer hides.

Once an embryo in bed, now juvenile.
In winter, this flower sings,
so it grew and it grew, changing its colors,
till it bloomed in spring.

Though as each petal unfolded,
and each wore a mix of pigments,
some filled with anger, others filled with shame.
Though the hue's of happiness and hope
held this flower together, the flower that hath no name,
however, I proclaim, "Mother".