“Am I really so?” voiced the rose,
“Withered and old?”
“What about what I used to be?”
“Fair and charming?”
The rose spoke to the tree and the sky,
But none told her any different,
Everything must fade, old or young,
All must fade to imperfect . . . .
The rose finally gave in,
She too was wise,
But now she loved being imperfect,
Now she held her own history.
And she closed her withered eyes . . . .