|If I were a daffodil
Nodding my golden head,
I’d want to be in a graveyard:
A bit of spring instead
Of only death and heartsick grief,
Of tears and memories fading,
A bit of sunshine, a sunlit day,
A hint of green for shading-
Then in a year, I would be two.
The following, I’d be four,
And as the years pass swiftly by
I’d be a daffodil encore.
A bit of me in each succession
Much like children keep us living
And thus someday I would at last become
A Zhivagian carpet of eternal giving.