Oh, no, not the poet,
Why not the maiden with dark eyes
Shadowed by distant tears,
I will help her to shun her fears
And silence her night cries…
Oh, there he comes, the poet…
Hush, be silent, be quiet,
He listens to what we say,
Our whispers travel like a light ray,
Changing the night into a day.
I will not die,
Nor see my petals be carried by the wind,
No, I will bloom in her lush mind,
Even if I left my dried ruins in a water glass
While the blowing whistle carries my petals.
There, the poet will lie,
Murmuring words like every noon,
Then will take one of us
And offer as his boon.
Oh, we die but art lives.
I will not have my hand idle,
Weaving like the cypress branches,
No, my hand will play a magical fiddle
And she will listen to the tune,
Because I will be playing near her heart
And she will be resting on my leaves.
Look how she weaves the threads,
Blue? Purple? Pink? Green?
Roses with those colors are unseen,
Yet, she will have them to mime…
White Rose, what fate do you aim?
I only plan to be untrue,
Like the snow falling on a cedar
Inside globe made of glass,
Or the feelings from a reader,
That does not seem to exist
But even so refuses to pass.
Those will be the roses she crafts.
Those will be the roses he crafts.
And those roses will forever last.
When Adam saw the half-eaten fruit,
He knew his destiny was set,
Wherever Eve would fall,
He would follow, He would fall.
He gazed the last Eden’s sunset
And laid among the tree’s roots,
Silent were the first steps of Time.
I will not die as long Love is my crime.