I heard them,
heard them all,
I have seen them,
seen them all.
they were so cold!
The rose beneath I,
decayed as I tried,
tried to lift it for light.
It was too late.
you are No more to blame!
It was me and my name.
Dry it became
in this very
The color faded away
as night turned darker,
but never day.
The birds cried
over the rose, silently
yet they echoed-
echoed to me endlessly.
Those hums, those voices
I lost what I had and
there was blood.
Blood on my hands!
I seized that away,
Forgive me not for
I have no mercy but anguish,
it has embraced me.
I cannot shed
that tear anymore
for this heart of mine
has turned to stone.
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Comments about this poem (The Stone by Naeem Rahman )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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