The Last Rose

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 11, 2019

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Submitted: April 11, 2019

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THE LAST ROSE
 

On a snowy day,

In a dimly lit street,

An ailing girl, utterly dismayed

Perches under the canopy of an enormous tree.

 

Looking towards heaven,

Her eyes well up a little.

Perhaps she’s waiting for someone special,

But all that comes to her are snowflakes, frosty and brittle.

 

She digs up the icy earth

With her gloved fingers.

And buries a white rose beneath the dirt

For someone whose memory still lingers.

 

For someone who forever will be unknown.

For someone whose face may never be shown.

Is it her friend? Her mother or father?

Brother or sister? Or a secret lover?

 

Standing on her trembling feet,

She leaves unnoticed.

Like spring breeze, her legs sweep

Graceful and delicate.

 

She comes back the next day,

Welcoming a gamut of uninvited rumors.

“Perhaps she has lost her way.”

“Perhaps she has lost her sanity, the crowd infers.

 

Little heed does she pay

To their futile deductions and assumptions.

For she knows that her pain

Is beyond anyone’s comprehension.

 

Is it repentance?

Regret or sorrow?

A cry for happiness,

Should there be another tomorrow?

 

Her face is sallow,

Almost ghostly,

With tears of sorrow

Trailing down unceasingly-

 

For someone who forever will be unknown.

For someone whose face may never be shown.

Is it her friend? Her mother or father?

Brother or sister? Or a secret lover?

 

As the sun begins to dip,

She buries her second rose.

And up and down moves her quivering lip,

Wishing for someone to answer her woes.

 

She walks away stealthily,

Promising a return.

Etched are her footprints on the ground utterly chilly,

And spotting them are snow-clad ferns.

 

The third day, she arrives

Well before dawn.

On the snowy ground she lies,

Fatigued and withdrawn.

 

Snowflakes fall on her petite frame,

Draping her as if to offer solace.

In solitude, she murmurs a name,

Tears escaping her eyes without a trace.

 

Hours pass by quickly,

Welcoming the gloomy morn.

Nearing the little girl is an old man, pale and sickly

Who realizes that she’s long gone.

 

She’s set free now

From all the agony and misery.

On her visage dwells no frown,

But an iridescence of sheer glee.

 

Uniting with her beloved,

Gone are all of her woes.

In snow her lifeless body is clothed

Perhaps she’s the last rose-

 

For someone who forever will be unknown

For someone whose face may never be shown.

Perhaps it’s a friend, or her mother or father,

Or her brother or sister, or a secret lover.


© Copyright 2020 Shifa Maqba. All rights reserved.

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