She walks in the garden.
Sweet, innocent, made of glass.
So small, so fragile.
The garden; so scary, so big.

Walks between the enormous trees and thorny bushes.
She doesn't fit in there.
Her place is in a soft bed, covered in velvet and silk.
But still, she's there.
So sweet, so innocent, so fragile.
Made of glass.

Looking, searching, trying to find.
Something she once loved but is now lost?

She walks to a tree; a tree that once grew and blossomed flowers of pure beauty.
Flowers that have now long withered and died.
Blown away.

She touches the branches, feels the trunk, as if in hope the flowers'll start to blossom again.
But the tree is dead, no feelings left.
And all love for life has left it now, never to return.

Her innocent face, her warm embrace,
Her fragile tears, running down her face.

So sweet, so innovent, so fragile.
Made of glass.

She's locked inside the garden.
No way in, no way out.
The gate's been shut, guarded by a fiery angel with a flaming sword.
Has the girl locked herself in? Built the garden about herself?
Protecting her from the world?
Or protecting the world from her?

She keeps on walking, keeps on searching.
Looking for something that doesn't exist?

Is she looking for love?
-No love in the garden.
Is she looking for warmth?
-No warmth in the garden.
Is she looking for life?
-No life in the garden.

Shattered glass on the dead, dirty ground.
Shattered soul in the dead, dirty body.
Shattered tears on the dead, dirty face.
So sweet, so innocent, so fragile.
Raped by the world.