Don’t push me too hard. Because I might fall. Don’t rush me either, because I am a flower, and might wither. Like a Rose, let me blossom– water me, watch me grow … Like a waiter, serve me good, and I will return to your service.

Don’t push yourself too hard. Because you’re just a novice, and might fall. And I can’t pick you if you do. For even though you are light as a feather, you’re heavier than I can handle. Now like a disease, I am sick, of you.

Like a priest, sanctity me. Who knows? I might get born again; free to catch your fall or simply stand on my own.