I will not write of deep red roses,
who pose like brightly lit glass towers;
Who turn up their bright pink noses,
at nameless, small wildflowers.
Their fragrance will not sway me,
Nor their lissome breezy dance;
I shall turn away and quickly flee
from fickle fleet romance.
Let those who love the roses take
what beauty they can find;
Me, I think them rather fake
and their wicked thorns unkind.
A wildflower is all I really need,
that my heart may never bleed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem