A flower shed many a petal,
dying in a glass of tears.
Thus this was its final battle,
an end to hopes, an end to fears...

You threw away the flower,
you took away the glass -
you'd think it's shed its power,
and lost its pride and class.

But you are wrong!
For the soul remains untouched.
You might have said so long,
thought dying's what you watched...

Merely changed, the flower outgrew -
- its weak and feeble shell
lost to eye, lost to you
It fooled the keening bell.

It's always so, with the like of souls,
when soul cant bare the tightened cage,
whispers low; for whom bell tolls
and than it gently turns the page...