Oh, My Lovely Flower!

Oh My white Tulip, my diamond flower,

Oh the flower of flowers! 

I always call her,

For she chose a garden of flowers,

Rather than a dinner date.

She welcomes the morning Sun 

with flowers that bloom from her garden,

She worships the night with the dripped off flowers

kept inside her books.

She smells those dried flowers

and call them the fragrance of love.

Who framed flowers

as a token of love?

She always questioned looking 

at the red roses. 

She always wanted to be flowers

in my poems.

She always said,

Bury me with flowers 

of your poems,

And when I die in real,

Your poems will be my flowers

to decorate my tomb.

My funeral will never have flowers,

They will have your words, your love, sung with your voice.