Originally written: 1/92

There stands a rose upon the bank of a stream;
like the guard of some protected dream.

It sees its reflection and thinks that there's two,
but then the image ripples, and it knows it's not true.

It stands and waits for another to come by,
for without another, soon it will die.

Days pass, and so do nights;
changing with different shades and lights.

Months pass, and so do years,
lengthening with the dawning of tears.

So much has gone by, and still no rose,
where it stands, no one seems to know.

"Alas it's too late!" The little rose cries.
It hangs its head heavily, and soon so it dies...