simple in the pale shade
of the gilded moonlight.
Not proud with its painter's image alone
but silent, sweet.
Lovingly pure by the edge of my bed.
on the water's surface.
No metaphor could describe you
with your perfect colour
and perfect shape.
Your petals sway with the cold autumn wind.
I touch your skin and feel its roughness
and I know you cannot last;
a little flower, a painter's image.
You fall limp with the pale night
but I cannot help myself.
I sense your beauty and you
Right here by the edge of my bed.
O' little flower, how I adore you.
You speak more than any poem I could write.
No gales harm you, no blood stain you.
Forever may you be bare, little rose,
right here by the edge of my bed.