In a garden near a river sits a rare rose tree,
The blooms that grow there in summer,
Are a wondrous sight to see
Delicate the petals, purest colour, Apricot.
The branches on which they flower,
Sturdy, verdant green and the thorns...
extremely sharp.
I plucked a rose for to give my love,
Withdrew my hand,
Upon my wrist,
Horror of deep crimsons stain.
Alas no medicine or physician,
Could deny my deathly fate.
A thorn, to most a harmless thing.
Harshly taken from this world,
Far from my loves embrace,
This Spirit mourns and dwells here still,
Supplicated, for my Lady, I await.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem