On streets of cobblestones outside an ancient village square,
stands Megan with her flowers every day.
She smiles to the people holding flowers in her hand,
a precious single rose or big bouquet.

She sings, flowers, flowers for your hair.
Flowers for your table if you please.
Flowers to remind us where we all come from.
Flowers that will take us home again.

Each morning Megan climbs the hills behind her cottage home,
picking flowers as she says a prayer.
“May all who take this gift, know the beauty of the earth
and the simple joys of living every day.”

The years went by so quickly, yet was Megan unaware,
though it seemed the hills grew steeper every day.
She was buried in the spring beside the flowers that she loved,
but the echo of her voice is heard today.