She whispers to imaginary birds,
She waits for buses she can never ride,
She has a secret place where she can hide,
She thinks she knows a song, but not the words.
An old stone lady in the nursing home,
A broken flower in her gentle way,
Is it tomorrow or yesterday?
Her whole life is lost music, a lost poem,
She wanders everywhere with her old cane,
A quaint survivor in her ninety years.
She has a lot of bonus time for tears.
She does not know her suffering or her pain,
In her dim world she smiles at everyone,
A broken flower living in the sun.