Surrounded in joyful stupor,
engulfed by a beautiful flame,
tied to my only passion,
my heart is my only name.
Straying from the sorrow,
enough to still smile tomorrow.
But how long does this last?
The rose will wilt, and wither, and die.
Only the barren stalks remain,
covered in eversharp thorns.
These thorns, will punctuate and scrape.
But they don't have to see the crimson fall.
There's more than one stairway
leading out of it all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem