Dead Rose

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this is the hour and it’s long shadow
vainly flickering on the edges of night
not without reluctance sinks to rest
amongst its sister memories, rose, O
many a day will i mourn the loss
of the scented sorrows you have caressed me with
across the black rooms of my wandering nights!
this is for a debt of fruitful sadness…
a little wreath spun from the looms of night
some slight flower with the alien fragrance
of a long despair that dies, wanting itself…
beneath the muted ghost of a lone tear
shrivelled for lack of your envenomed thorn
i will at times remember you with them
as i my grey with my brilliant dawns…
fare thee well, my love, though now i do not weep…
may this final bouquet of white sadness
deserve the splendour of your absent brow!

DOMINGO C. DE GUZMAN

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