When I was a little boy, my mother said to me, "Watch the new born roses grow. It`s a pretty sight to see. You, my son, shall blossom as the flower below. I will be your raindrops. You will be my rose.
Listen while I tell you of the beauty in the sky. There`s a home for angels on the clouds so high. I must be an angel. In heaven I shall stay. If you ever need me, I`ll hear each word you say."
Now her raindrops fall no more. Who will take her place? Will I live to blossom full or wither into space? Many times I wonder on the clouds above is it my dear mother who showers me with love?
When I was a little boy.
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