I am the coldest kind of a stranger
sometimes I am what I've been told
following footprints on the sand
along the road, dusty and old
I am the rose, so pure and red
blossom just right before the end
don't have place to lay my head
but I've got smile,a smile to send
and humble insight for that kind
that signed the heritage of a hurt
I am the one who resent the dirt
flowers I rather grow in my mind
I am the colour of painter's affection
there in the memories of perfect life
I learned to live things as they go,
I call it "beauty of the imperfection"
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