fake roses, I desired;
authenticity, was never important
because with a beauty just like real roses
even if only from afar, even if only external,
it was all blissfully, naively, enough.

fixated so long with dozens of fake roses,
for fake roses I burned, for fake roses I wallowed;
the burning façades, the far-off daydreams
I thought it was enough
to add color to my garden of thorns.

and for fake roses I pathetically plundered,
for fake roses, I wore myself out;
but amidst sunflowers and lilies, I'm content to admit
for a tangible token that could never fulfill,
for fake roses, I'm glad I've outgrown for the real.