When the petals of a rose begin to wilt,
I drown it with water until there is no more.
The rose has lived for far too long
And I am determined for it to keep on living.
But the discoloration has already begun.
The sun whose laughter used to make the rose redden with glee
Is now disfigured by the clouds.
They play tricks on my eye
With their friendly shapes
When really they’re tears on the verge of pouring down my face.
The rose will not die!
I will mend it with my tears,
With my bare hands if I have to.
But when light blinds instead of nourishes,
I cannot help but be discouraged.