Do not hurl the floral sphere, no, do not,
For it strikes the heart, a wounding shot.
Within the heart, a plea is made,
By cunning hands, a wicked raid.
Do not hurl the floral sphere, no, do not.
Do not hurl the floral sphere, no, do not,
For it strikes the heart, a wounding shot.
Aflame, this ember, burning bright,
Yes, aflame, this ember's plight.
The sphere of bloom, they call it so,
Where it falls, a stain will grow.
Each limb of mine, in aching plea,
Cries out and says to me:
Do not hurl the floral sphere, no, do not.
Do not hurl the floral sphere, sphere, sphere, no, do not,
For it strikes the heart, a wounding shot.
Do not hurl the floral sphere, do not.
Do not hurl the floral sphere, do not.
Do not hurl the floral sphere, do not.
For it strikes the heart, a wounding shot.
Cease now, cease, cease now,
Do not torment my heart, my love, oh love,
Do not torment my heart, my love, oh love,
Come now, for my heart, this maiden's plight, behold, I will now speak.
By cunning hands, a theft is wrought.
Do not hurl the floral sphere, no, do not, no, do not,
Do not hurl the floral sphere, no, do not, no, do not.
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