Glass Garden

            You were my first book
            Talking about my first love
            I wrote you in a boiling summer
            While everyone was sleeping
            Mom had to come over to see
            What I was writing
            Pap came over and sat till I went to bed
            They had to remind me that
            I had to go to work in the office the next morning

            But I wanted to write, mom
            It's about my first love and
            the first drop of my bitter tears
            When I was born, there must have been a witch
            Who told you:
            "Don't let that little girl touch
            The dancing shoes and words,
            She will be wicked"
            No, no such a thing?
            Then why do you never let me dance nor let me write

            Mom, my book is not a business plan
            My songs may not have fans
            And if there is no money for me
            I would rather burn them and
            Carry to the next planet
            The glass garden is fragile
            And someone broke in
            and smashed my dream
            At the age of twenty-one.

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