I once owned a rose
With silk petals of red,
That lived its life of luxury
At the window by my bed.

Its loveliness could not be compared,
And neither could its thorn,
Which would bite whoever drew near,
Yet it was never lovelorn.

Then the time came
When its apparel became less fair.
When its arid complexion and crinkled skirt,
Derived from no one any care.

I did my best to tend the new faults,
Restoring water to its vase,
But no remedy would ever again
Bring wonderment to a viewer’s face.

That was when Death
Came knocking at the door.
He tipped his hat to me
And bowed low to the floor.

“Please not yet,” I begged,
“This flower still has time.
It has shared my pains and woes.
Is loss of beauty really a crime?

I am the only one
Who cares to see it die away.
Lost beauty is no compensation for immortality,
But please, let the rose stay.”


“Your plea is admirable,” said Death,
“And though its time is through,
I didn’t come here for the plant.
I came here for you.”