The Withered Rose

I stand here
On this lonely road
Amidst the sands of snow.
No sense of time,
Fog rises ‘round
The Maple and the Oak.
Certain, you won’t
Be here today;
Certain of my fate,
Certain of my
Seared longing;
Withal, I wait,

A bird takes flight
From a near-by tree,
Some stardust snow
It showers on me,
I shiver under
The dim sunshine,
The shiver stirs
My memories,
A petal falls
On the snow,
From the withered rose
That I hold,
The sun gets warmer
Secretly,
The sun borrows
My memories,

The rose smells
Different today,
Unlike it smelt all
These years,
When’t was
Fading away,
Silently,
In my copy of
Shakespeare,

A harder wind,
Blows my way,
The fallen petal,
Blows away,
May it find you
And your way,
Certain, you won’t
Be here today,
The withered rose
Heaves a sigh,
And I sigh for you.
I sigh, too, for
The withered rose,
For, it can’t find you.
I sleep peacefully,
Every night, for
I e’er dream of you.
Certain, you won’t
Be here today,
And so let us
Keep the rose due,

And sure I am,
A day would come
When my body turns a heap,
Will you see it then,
That my epitaph says,
‘He’s not dead, but asleep?’