The day your rose is stripped of its redness,
Is the first time you will lose color.
Your heart will remember, like it happened a blink ago
Your body will replay the drive with which that thick fluid withered this rose,
You will feel the water leave it,
Feel its petals go soft,
Slowly blending into nothingness,
And it will be like the living wandering aimlessly in a graveyard.
Your gourd will go empty,
And you will become it,
This is where you will let yourself go,
Where it will be easy to break off the stem,
Never look back,
Where the tears are needed,
Where red doesn’t matter.
This is also where you could gather these petals,
add a little bit of oil
Make a pressed flower picture of them,
This is where your petals own their color,
Exude a new kind of beauty,
Because they are of wounds from fearless scars,
A place where roses will always be red,
and where all things remain bright and beautiful.