How stoneblack is the park at will
And cool is the twilight
That glimmers across an uphill
Yet teardrops roll, all decked in white.
Your distant gaze flits, nearly bare
Like gas lamp on dim coach
Windblown by mist; here, everywhere
Tells me not to approach.
Later, amidst the evening rain
When hours drift in repose
The pounding lash of time contains
A bench without a rose.
My heart trickles as dew submits
To a quiver that heaves,
For your tattered rose now wilts
While sullen face of moon retrieves.
Oh, cloudbursts know my deep longing
While taste of moments are gone;
And souvenirs no longer bring
The laughter and reason.
Rose ( Allegory) Contest: Giorgio V
*revised poem, 2012
by: nette onclaud