My love is like a dead, dead rose.
Whose skin is changed to textured lands,
worn by wind and sand.
Whose edges are singed with umber burned,
and touched by rich siena.
Whose veins are whitened with time.
Whose petals are pressed in hallowed memory,
pressed between the pages of all our eternities,
made meaning by echo'd remember'd rhymes.
This, these, those and so selected,
the fair fertility of first blush turned,
all other flowers of the field rejected,
and this, ripened silk remains,
I cast into the wind, and scatter,
missing all, missing not, missing nothing.
A garden of the past is watered by salt tears,
of all the lost hopes for splendid years.
Good-bye, und tchüss, beijos and ciao,
from out of the past and towards the now.