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.