duminică, 28 noiembrie 2010

Jealousy kills (and it’s always the rose)

This is another story by ancients bards told
About a white rose and his actions unwise and bold.
It is a wind’s whisper that at night in the gardens he might have been,
At timeless pleasures the moon soon shouts that he was seen.

Thrusting with every single thorn
And toying with an angelic iris early born…

But some time after he was broken found
His thorns ripped apart and his petals shaken,
The leafs were burned, his pestle spread on the ground
And the very essence of his breath taken.

So the rose was gone to pay Death’s bills
In just a second and out of the blue,
Because jealousy always kills
When a turquoise tulip finds those rumors to be true.