As with my now aged right hand, like myself,
Which, has passed two plus thirty years,
With an admiring eye, scribes on this very paper,
An unobserved marvel never witnessed.
So, my maid, once again with warmth come to me,
In front of this light, portray sweet grace,
For it is only with outstretched hands for your lips,
That I may relate this true wonder to thee,
And beg for your divine voice to guide my song;
Therefore, fly pleasure, through my words.

To sense Shame; bathing in your pumping blood,
Happily creating ripples with her feet,
Paddling in and around the heart, is no new flavour.
For many, she stirs waves of embarrassment,
Then it is for the many, I speak loud of my often guest;
Just like stars on high without yet names,
I arrive upon a view I feel I should have seen anon,
Commented on at least; sung about maybe.
For it is against evil Shame that I beg you bring arms,
My pure delight, tender maid; aid me true.

A new fallow rose, for sure, I've gazed upon as a child,
With its attire of a sweet kiss in the air;
The ever-blossomed rose I have attached to my love,
And passed on to many a dainty girl;
As death of the crimson flower gently floats its petals,
Withering to the ground, I confess; have seen.
However, one single rose, from bud through its prime,
Charging towards its fair scent-lost end,
Within Time itself, for it had barely blew its wind,
Shame holds me, ‘cause no; I've never seen.

Paradise of happiness in beholding the closed maroon shell,
Till bursting its petal like an exploded nebula,
From almost the sheer weight pulling its outer most parts,
Away from itself, barely remains on its stem.
Like this rose, my ***** grows similar to the scarlet flower,
Beginning to drink the breath of a new life,
Ready to, eager to bloom, for its time had not yet come,
Waiting of its own accord to spread its wings,
Stretching out petals and opening its beauty towards the light,
Heaving with fragrance over an allotted time.

And echoing this rose, when within its prime of days,
Wills wonderfully; the whole world to view,
As too the heart; growing from a bud to flowering true;
Not once does it wish to hold and remain quiet,
For a complete desire, bids to be cherished and gazed upon.
Alas, as rose and heart walk hand in hand,
They are either picked by a love, gifted and treasured,
Or like my rose here flow their course;
Just as the sun traverses many a time across its path,
Seas accept the cascading mouth of a river,
Slowly, although gleaming with life, outshines the full moon,
Sheds its warmth and undeniable beauty.

The unseen had now become seen, and with my vision;
Shout to pluck a rose whenever passed,
For it wants to be picked; and place an image in a heart,
And its aroma in the memory of love.
For to delay and admire, such as I idly did with mine;
To stare in awe as the hourglass ticks,
Without never realising; ruins and destroys the very ecstasy,
In which you stand with joy watching.
Imploring your help, I banish Shame savouring my blood.
With your song, you cheer to peck the rose,
The flush rose; and display for all the worth it contains;
The unimaginable love for what it is,
And the heart, and your passion will forever thank thee;
For I thank thee, for revealing me my love.