The talking rose

I was talking on an evening to a purple velvet rose
that was reigning in a glass bowl on a shelf inside my house –
I was asking it to sell me out its soul, but I suppose
what I offered was too little,
what I offered was too useless,
what I offered was too shallow,
for I thought I heard it grouse
of how priceless was the perfume which it spread inside my house.

Feeling vexed by the contempt and pride affected by the bloom
I ignored all further whisper it attempted to convey –
‘til one night, when in the thickly warm and humid summer gloom
all I heard was just the silence,
all I heard was just the darkness,
all I heard was just my breathing
vainly searching for a say
from the rose which, in the meantime, hushed its scent and passed away.

So I tenderly beheld it – purple velvet turned to brown –
as it gracefully adorned the wooden shelf within my room –
now, that all the sweet aroma had resigned the rose’s crown,
what was left was just the stillness,
what was left was just an echo,
what was left was just a shadow
of the rose that met its doom –
and I missed – oh! how I missed! – the talking fragrance of the bloom…

 

 

© 2015 Liliana Negoi

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