I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

The rose is the flower of love
her fragrance the sweetness
of a love one's smile and
the tenderness of life in her arms
where the hours are
minutes gently passing by

The rose is the flower of love
her petals are the thoughts and feelings
that ripple through our heart
with the hopes of spring and summer
as the nearness of my love brings
joy into my life

The rose is the flower of love
though her stem be covered with thorns
still would I seek the love
I bought with tears concealed
and lay bare
unshielded and vulnerable
to the arrows of love


The rose is the flower of love
her redness the color of blood
shed by a bleeding heart
when a love dies
and memories of pain
is all that is left