As he peered at the vase of red roses,
momentarily ignoring the cliché,
he found himself drawn to the vase,
upon which were painted
red roses.
And when he looked beyond
the table where the roses sat
and out the window,
he noticed the bushes against
the wall were heavy with
red roses.
He had never looked at roses
in so many different angles and attitudes
and suddenly found it unbearably sad
that artists and poets
had reduced them to mere symbols
and images.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Though the rose indeed is probably overused in both poetry and art, those left on the vine would but wither. Art at least preserves them. Thanks for a very thoughtful poem.