When a rose dies, she dances her last dance in the wind, scents intensely and draws dark reds in the morning. When it is a dream that dies, a reality of pessimism loathing and hope is clouded among the tall trees oblivious to frustration and forgetfulness. When spring dies, a torrid summer draws nostalgia and sleep and laziness with whites and rays encourage us to calmly fight the day. But when it is a voice that falls into silence, in complete destruction, in the abyss, there is no colour for the emptiness of his absence, there is no rhythm, no word, even no poetry. When a voice dies, the melody in the air is silenced, time extends and flexes and we feel abandoned on earth. In you was the order of things and in the silence of your music, chaos, disorder, emptiness, nothing between the pages of a book, the mark of my love in a space in memory.
<p>When A Rose Dies</p> <p>The petals fall like whispered confessions, each one a small surrender to the ground. What was crimson becomes dust, what was fragrant becomes memory— the kind that lingers in an empty room long after the vase is cleared away.</p> <p>There is no drama in it, no grand finale or sudden rupture. Just a slow unclenching, a gentle coming apart the way a letter opens in old hands, the way a song fades when no one is listening.</p> <p>The thorns remain, of course. Even in dying, the rose keeps its defenses, that small violence it was always ready to offer. But the thorn too will soften, will lose its bite, its purpose, will become just another brittle thing that crumbles at a touch.</p> <p>What does the rose know that we don't? That beauty is a borrowed thing, a temporary arrangement of light and pigment. That the end is written in the beginning— in that first unfurling, that first reaching toward the sun, was already the seed of this fading.</p> <p>So let it fall, petal by petal. Let it teach us what it knows: that to have bloomed at all is to have been enough. That the rose dies, but the earth remembers the color.</p>
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