A lone silver flower sits in a field.
Nothing to call home,
nobody to speak to.
With nothing but a frail beam
of moonlight to hold onto.
A lone silver flower sits in a field.
In wait to picked,
by a child's loving hand.
With nothing but a dream
to keep itself alive.
A lone silver flower sits in a field.
As day passes,
its petals wither.
With nothing but a simple wish
to keep it from fading.
A lone silver flower sits in a field.
Withered onto the ground,
meeting friends for the first time.
With nothing but them
to keep it from losing hope.
