A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky,
Atop a tender strand,
Rising from the land,
‘Til killed by maiden’s hand,
Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.
What am I?
A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky,
Atop a tender strand,
Rising from the land,
'Til killed by maiden's hand.
Perhaps, as a token of love.
Perhaps, to say goodbye.
What is it?