Whenever a writer says it rained flowers, I think,
That's bullshit; it can't rain flowers.

When the Buddha said he endured,
as he sat, the fury of the Lord of Death,
and in deepest concentration
turned those thousand arrows, the storms,
and the burning white blades
into an explosion of petals
which floated upon the four corners of the world,

I'd say he was probably lying,
because you can't think nothing into flowers.