The Rose Poem by Rosetta -
The Rose
A rose; this rose, rose out of the ground on an early mourning walk.
A rose; which rose? Icy silver and glass glare on this gloom of mourn.
What rose? The risen rose has been stripped of its innocent petal, and shrouds beneath coarse.
The rose is dead. It has shattered in mourning.
My rose is the love of my life; my name.
Rosetta, dearest, holds tighter within the death of our people.
What a harmless, meaningless, useless name.
"Rose." A rose. Which rose?
Snow petals fall onto mist covered ground, and now flashlights coincide with flickered matches.
The matchstick drops, and spreads quite like wildfire; hello? Can you understand me?
Is it possible to say so much without saying a thing myself?
Is anybody listening?
And with the water over the flame, my rose dies on a cold winter night, like I.
2 The rose is not only the sad flower but it is also you. Extremely touching and original poem, to be kept, reread and well remembered. Thank you and welcome.
Impressively beautifully deep and sad. Reflection of inner feelings, thru imagery and sentiments using a Rose as protagonist
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/27/2024 1:10:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
How very sad is this poem, dear poetess, mine does not die, my rose is still very alive perpetually, till now my rose is still walking under the horizon, but I regard yours as most important and very precious.5 Full Stars and thank you for sharing