September 24, 2012

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                        Rose Withering  

     

                              In the delicate dream   

                              Of a blowing rose

                             The fragrance of lost youth

                             Lingers until the last desire­­­­­­­­­

     

                             And its spent breath

                             Is past remembrance

     

                             An echoed shadow

      

                             A blossom

                             That breaks the heart

                             With its longing­­

     

     

     

     

Comments (2)

  • I found three dried roses on a bookshelf yesterday, remnants of my father's funeral in 2010. Still beautiful in their own way.

    When I was young, people in their 50s were ancient. Now I'm in my 50s and madly in love again, feeling all the passions of a 20-year-old and looking forward to spending the next 30-40 years with my beloved.

  • Such an achingly beautiful poem.

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