There will always be another Spring,
– and it has hit me-
With buds on blossoming hold
Like the stories you build,
There is always more to be told.
And with each turnover we forget the last
For the petals look as fresh
Without mind of Springs gone past.
Call me your flower,
Your daisy, your rose,
Like all the others
Who will come and go
And I’ll call myself your lover,
As far as our story will fold;
(Even the freshest of springs turn old)
Yet I wont weep for the flowers that wither
For there will always be another.