I listened to the dream of the rose,
The chaste, cool fragrance sprayed
From out of her passionate flower’s soul;
I listened to it with all of my senses,
And it intoxicated me.
She dreamed of the sun’s rays,
The days fermenting in her veins,
Nights nourishing her with dew and moonlight,
And wildly frothing for her through an ocean of air,
Of these she dreamed.
Yet she didn’t notice the golden beetle
That was laboriously climbing her chalice,
Writhing in intoxication from her perfume,
Stabbed to death by her ardent passion;
She didn’t notice.
So the rose shown forth in chaste splendor,
Enjoying her ardent passion and laughed:
“I have the most glorious of souls, I.
I am certainly the queen,
Of my sister flowers!”
And a steel blue butterfly came whizzing by,
That buzzed and cooed of love,
Who graciously inhaled her perfume: and left,
Otherwise her radiant womb would be its grave.
“I am the bride of the light!”
Yet when the third afternoon came,
Since I had taken up the dream of the rose,
Her queenly head hung there,
Bowed in the glare of the sun, dusty,
Stabbed to death by the hot light.