I had cared for it,
I provided it the best of time.
I had showered all that was mine,
Why, oh why did I then do this?
Gentle, kind and honest, I should have been,
And now the rains falling blame me,
So does the wet soil beneath, leaving me with no glee.
How come I ever heard its sorrow and pain?
I know it was full of thorns,
And hurt me whenever I touched it.
But, it was rare and precious, I admit,
This happened to me; it was beautiful.
Why did I not think before I plucked,
And scattered every petal?
With no mettle it leaves me.
Grief fills me up as lower the wreath,
Over my black rose of love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem