In the palm of each soul, unfolds a brand new story;
The radiance in each face, singing verses of His glory.
How, when, in what and why we're different,
No mortal can think and tell;
Yet, in one heart lie our roots,
The deepest depth of our shell.
When petals go on to bloom,
And their sweetness go on to lose;
Who is it that staunchly objects,
Beautiful dew instead to choose?
Who is it, in innocence, suffering their several pricks?
Who reflects back the meanness spewing in their kicks?
