Eight proud blossoms, heads held high,

Eager to embrace the sky,

Hoping to be seen. 

 

Five young weaklings bending down,

Study moss upon the ground,

Think, “What can it mean?”

 

Pride will wilt with warming sun,

Blooming faces will be done,

Turning paper thin.

 

Innocents will rest in moss,

Stunned to realize their loss,

How short life has been.