I don't want someone that will love me
When I am eighteen,
And there are petals in my cheeks
And rivers in my eyes,
Silk in my skin
And songs in my footsteps;
But someone that will love me
When I am eighty,
And the flowers are closing, softly,
And the rivers are misted o'er;
The silk is whispering in gentle folds
And my feet only shuffle to waltzes.
