Upon a field of flowers, I stand

The smell of pine fills my nose.

I am nothing but a wasteland

I turned my head.

To see the flowers wilting.

Now it is winter, 

The field is bathed in red.

And I, nothing but a sinner. 

the flowers are dead

It is I who have the hands of Death. 

The field of nothingness,

The summer is all I remember.

Faintly, the flowers and all their fairness. 

charged with guilt, I surrender.

I sink into the earth

The killer of innocence.