Purple azaleas bloom,  
and I've brought armfuls.  
I plucked them to scatter here  
in your path as you  
fade. Please, walk towards the sunset.  
When you turn away  

from here, take an armful to  
be crushed, please take care  
to tread lightly as you walk  
out. I'll send flowers  
without words for each small step.  
You know you want to  

leave home often although you    
hate to decide why.  
I know you'll leave me in the  
shape of an armful  
when you walk away. Make your  
steps lightly on the  

flowers, each step soft, silent,  
armfuls of aza-  
lea flowers, armfuls of  
azaleas scat-  
tered before you. Then go crush-  
ing with your parting

steps. You need a change of air;  
you think I will cry.  
Humble armfuls of aza-  
leas won't shed tears.  
Please, please go away at last.  
Without words I will

gather armfuls of aza-  
lea flowers, armfuls of  
purple spread along  
pathways. Grown weary of me,  
know that for the life  
of me I'm at last

sickened with the sight of my  
tears with you marching  
briskly over those withered armfuls.  
The day will come when  
azaleas shall not shed  
tears. Azaleas by the

armful — the azaleas  
flaming hillside — send  
you away wordlessly. So please,  
go. Walk into the  
sunset, weaving armfuls of  
tears onto your path.