A Rose Is Always the First One To Die
A rose is always the first one to die
As love arrives, flip-flapping his wings,
Taking her to a fresh grave to lie,
Hidden amid hallowed tree’s rings.
Earth unrests with a slight touch,
Feathers and petals, red and white,
Mingle when Love leans to vouch,
Whirling around the burial site:
“Wave slowly, I see, I like, I take,
Your lips are cherries, your heart
Like the soft and most sweet cake,
I will feast and if my lips demand,
I will take my bow and with my art,
Take food from your soft hand.“
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