A bush of hopes but a bouquet of flowers
A beautiful image pleasing our eyes
And we climb the ladder to the highest towers
Yet the image falls on the ground and dies.
That’s how our aspirations go on the rocks
Ricocheting the frightful echo of our fear
And vigilant time watching our effort mocks
Our trip around the milky way into here.
And here we try to see the image of the past
But now we are wrinkled to climb the towers
And speed beats us time being too fast
So without hopes we lie on
A pillow of despair
A mattress of sand
Looking at the sky
Our only field of flowers.