A rose shall blossom,
but I will never love her.
Her name's already on my lips
but there it must stay and bleed with its thorns.
And me, walking in this garden of unhappy flowers
in the season of whispers...
Where's the rain? May it flood the land,
for already I can feel this sun of fire withering my heart.
by Jason R. Forbus
All roses wither, the have the unhappiest life. It cost a lot to be beautiful :)
RispondiEliminaI like it the poem