If you pick a rose,
As deep as the reddest passion,
It's fragrance and scent,
Like the fresh breeze of honey suckle dew.
You pick the petals' one by one,
What will you have left to bare,
A stem of the flower's head.
Though it's fragrance,
Will not be sweet,
And it's color faded bleak.
The seeds', will you find,
They will fall to the ground,
To meet; the tree of willow-side creek.
By willow - side creek, we walk.
In the soft breeze we talk.
We pass by the old stalks',
Of flowers' that once stood,
In the summer time breeze,
That spread, their sweet fragrance,
Of love, over the stream's and above.
Making passionate perfume for us .
Oh, sweet life of love.
