The Secret Of The Rose Poem by Norbert Tasev

A secret symbol of love or a sacrifice meant for fertility - getting fluffy, thirsting for cool cooling springs. Time is stubbornly dying. And even the loss of petals proclaiming fragility, the proud hope of dawn, scatter its rays more and more humiliatedly, erroneously!

His spiky, unbreakable stem now closes like the sighs of convicts at the last word, his opening, majestic chalice resembling just a shrunken mother! In a room where he had bathed in halo all day, he had enthroned on his sublime lofty throne, someone had placed fresh water in the crystal tube of his vase,

delayed to lasting minutes for the remainder of mortality! I couldn't take it off the table, its prickly crown secretly prevented our garbage from being a broad-rumened prey: Its existence, already for mere fragments if enough. Fatal transience, like a whimpering culprit, thoughtfully and slowly stripped her dying petals naked! "I examined him, lying on his face in front of me, naked, "

broken, kind, with a princely head like a cursed princess who clung to a secret, and now her moral strain offends her to go among men! In the place of my perforated love, I also examine the swan-touch of fingerprints: Were only we conscious, proud fools that it was common to believe

we deceived ourselves with our will, did we lie? The weather is getting more and more unpleasant: grungy and foggy - and while I turn off my lamp, while with lost faith I still hope that you will look at me with your star-eyes from above.