It’s warm in the garden of your heart,

and blossomed poppies seem to question

all of the good and bad, lost and sad

decisions that you made.

It’s sunny and I’m here, the garden of your heart

received with open arms my sacrifice

to be less than your love, more than a flower

dying of solitude.

To be the queen of red poppies in the garden

of your lightful, hopeful, joyful, splendid heart!

where you collect them all, pretty flowers

killed by winter.

I’m one of them, you made me queen,

So why don’t I feel that I deserve a crown?

I’m lonely here, in the garden of your heart,

please set me free!