The Garden of Unhappy Flowers

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