Withering Rose


Jean Caryl

I am in the midst of a deserted island,

Alone and cold, wondering how long here I stand

Shivering, hungry, bare, naked, I looked around,

It’s just me and this withering rose on my hand.

My sobbing heart is deafening unto my ears,

Dry is my eyes but my heart is drowning with tears,

I am puzzled, I am not sure of anything,

I am perplexed, I am unsure of everything.

Wind opposes me, forward I still tried to walk,

Step by step I continued, backward I still look,

Living footprints, before the wind takes it away,

I want to leave marks, right, left, I am torn which way.

For gone is my footprints, and down I always fall,

With my scrap knees I still want to stand tall,

With my bleeding hands, I will still never let go

Of this withering rose, no matter what is said so.

For in my hand although withering rose it is,

Dead, withering, but its value will never cease,

In my heart it reminds me of a million of things,

A fragment of hope is what it actually brings.

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