Another night of solitaire,
a silent room, an empty chair,
a withered rose within my room.
Still random poems I compose,
as darkness beckons to the rose,
in memories of sweet perfume.
A card is laid, the stars confound.
A shadowed echo without sound
recalls my frail mortality.
The cards are dots I must connect,
in cryptic poems to protect,
my hope and rose totality.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem