The last rose that remains,
then I do not anymore. Yellow
.
yellow petal hand-painted,
-the-art,
prodigy with an intricate embroidery of silk.
Alone in a vase,
in undisturbed contemplation of self, of what was
.
Of what did not.
Never was. Never.
E 'the legacy of a floral gift
load of wonder and longing
shameful that I was offered.
E 'and the legacy of the unexpected surprise
thought of being a woman, me, whom tribute, as befits
, with typical attention
flowers.
My yellow rose. Only my
.
Portrayed in thousands of photos, pictures yellow.
It amused smile.
The first pink, my.
But it is also, perhaps, the last:
God knows if I will donate again?
The vanity of her tender pink yellow sticks,
as a star of silent films,
lonely in his water bowl.
the console with indulgent eye,
reassuring about his majesty, the
note with tenderness.
Youth disappears
be celebrated at the time and accompanied with a solemn face adult
seriously.
like the petals of my yellow rose, slipped into the rest
recently, very little ...
God knows if I will be donated to another, one day?
December 20, 2008
(yes, the only survivor of the rose of the poem "Pink Rose")
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