The other day, I saw a lonely rose,
Poised gracefully over its fragile stem,
The dazzling, blinking sun flirtatiously
Appeared to make it blush a crimson red,
Fully abashed, yet ready to expose
With neither nonchalance nor icy phlegm,
Its scented self, as so vivaciously
It proudly showed its brightly-petaled head.
Today, the soil is bare and left alone
Without the beauty of its only rose.
I witness naught but one expectant bed
Where down beneath the germs of love abide —
The source from which true love must yet be born,
Not to remain in any long repose,
But soon exhaust its energy instead,
Around itself with dignity and pride.
In its own time and oft-beleaguered space
Each of its kind must play a common role
Within some garden of a yearning heart,
While in its own ability confide
To hold itself with undiminished grace,
Never to fail to charm the human soul;
And so the rose being Nature’s ageless art,
Time itself shall never brush aside.