The Late Rose
The late rose,
Glowing with sun tints, making pink lips tipsy,
This afternoon to open finally chose.
Thrown into tizzy,
I stand at the gate – so strange! - to note
That clouds over the streets do float and float.
I catch sight, quickly:
The dew shakes a white dress - which chum?
Oh no! ... Springtime has here so long come.
My hair has grown grey
Together with time that passes fast away.
Where will the rose resettle
Of its each petal!