Today I passed by a flowershop
as colorfull as my ancient soul,
but my eyes were fixed
on a bucket of white roses.
White roses upon the dust
of a graveyard never visited,
flakes of snow covering their petals
pressing them against the dead bodies.
Dead bodies, dead spirits,
eyes that will never again see,
hands that will not touch nor feel,
mouths that won’t speak, that won’t whisper.
What if I bought those roses
and laid them on my ribs,
will they give life to the dead heart
I am carrying around?
Or will they die, like roses upon graves?
Jehona Thaqi ©