Of all the tears that have taken place, rose rose...

Of all the tears that have once passed, rose rose, of which every day I have picked one. And every day I remembered the "thorns" they had. But at sight of their beauty, I forgot every time ... I picked up for the first time a white rose, which the thorns did not hate yet and its purity mirrored in my life ... I then picked up a red rose without which my garden It would not have remained the same. Then I understood what "love" means and then ... I met him "... Without wanting, I felt the third rose; His yellow petals, how they shuddered one by one in my hand, fallen in search of the vain love ... I felt the rose petals shake, and each petal fell one by one like my tears ... I searched for Vain to find in the immense "garden" any other rose, because they all dried up. Then I picked up without wanting the last one, the purple, which had not yet wounded. Only a petal thrown, hurried to seal our separation ... Now the "garden" is empty and the wind "runs" from one end to the other to give the tab with my life tab and to "sweep" the fallen petals ...