Flowers (Fresh Cut)

Flowers on the body dead
Flowers I sent
Powder on the eyes of them
They're too young to die

Dying makes a sort of paste
It's good for the eyes
Dying makes a sort of cloud
It broadens the sky

Dying makes a sort of sound
It darkens the night
The night was a warning
For my paciful eyes
Heard through the shadows
You'd worn a disguise