I am a withered flower, scorched by life's relentless sun.
One blow, and I turn into dust.
She is my sprout. She takes my hand and says, 'Hold on tight!' and I hold; she pulls me along and says, 'Mom, let's go,' and I go.
Hope has a name: Alisa!
I am a withered flower, scorched by life's relentless sun.
One blow, and I turn into dust.
She is my sprout. She takes my hand and says, 'Hold on tight!' and I hold; she pulls me along and says, 'Mom, let's go,' and I go.
Hope has a name: Alisa!