There lies a rose
In the mire of the road
Knowing not
She is in the mire...
Because she is dead...
A carriage drives over her,
A silly boy kicks her,
Hurting other beauties -
But not her...
She is dead...
Days pass,
It’s getting colder.
All that is left of her
Is hardly seen...
In his abundant
Gift for meditation
And insight,
A pilgrim notes
Her sacral light.
Then, raises her
From dust and shame,
Reminiscent of her days of fame,
Smiles at the undying beauty.
Now, he knows for sure
He’s completed his duty.

10.09.2003