Though every nightfall promises a new day
Never stopped is the grave keeper’s shovel
Though new blooms always sprout after drizzle
Never abated, your withering grace

When the wrinkles crawl across the pale face
the careful steps would gradually stumble
When the cold frost dyes over the petal
the strongest stems would eventually break

By then, who would be there with you at dawn
As the first light falls on your final breaths
Counting the past days that would soon be gone

By then, where would be a place you could rest
As lone man stands with his shovel in lawn
Feeling the cold chill that belongs to death