RoseRose is the name of a floweror a dead girlYou can place a rose in a warm palmor in black soilA red rose screamsone with golden hair passed in silenceBlood drains from the pale petalthe girl’s dress hangs formlessA gardener tends tenderly to a busha father who survived rages in madnessFive years have passed since Your deathflower of love that knows no thornToday a rose bloomed in the gardenmemory of the living and faith have died.
-Tadeusz Rózewicz
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