I once saw a rose, quite withered and old,
and small dew drops dripped from the petals
like old-lady tears, on a particularly late night in the winter.
The flower was stained light pink, with
little white lines that ran horizontal across
only a few of the petals. The flower blossomed
out of a green, spiky stem, which reached all the way
to the ground; they blossomed out of an armed sentry,
who served watch and protected the fading moments of
the subject of his eternally secret love.
He waits for flower's dying day and he brings
her food while he waits. She’s gone blind by this time,
but it doesn’t matter, she never saw her valiant stem
before; soon the last petal falls and then it’s truly the end.
The stem is not sad for his love; again, he knows he must wait.
And soon enough, it will be spring again and the new sun will give birth
to another new friend. And he’ll watch his eternal love grow,
and protect her faithfully, until she is old. And then he’ll have to let her go,
without ever letting her know.
No comments:
Post a Comment