In fields where wildflowers bloom so bright,
Their petals dance in morning light,
Yet shadows creep as day turns night,
A whisper of death in the twilight.

The roses red, they seem to know,
That life is brief, a fleeting show,
Their beauty hides the undertow,
Of silent graves where spirits go.

Lilies white in solemn grace,
Stand as guardians in this place,
They mourn the lost with gentle face,
In the garden’s cold embrace.

Yet even in death, there’s a seed,
Of life that follows where we lead,
For flowers bloom from sorrow’s creed,
And death, it seems, is life indeed.