To a Wild Rose

And who am I to be a judge
(and who am I to take a tally)?
but if a rose should live a thousand years
would not my own eyes see it gladly?

For a rose will wither and wrinkle
(its scent to fill a room)
but a rose that lives forever
(will not of centerpieces swoon)

For what winds that blow ‘crost those thorns
(coldest winds that men forsake)
will be the ones to carry the scent
that such a rose would make?

Now I’ve often wondered
at my ability to reason
how roses oft are quickly lobb’d
a mantle to be pleasin’

But yet for me what wisdom shows
in a lonesome hillside (crag’dmont) rose
(where even wintry winds cannot expose)
what ne’er has pleased a nose

For the scent of roses tell their death
(their fireside shriv’ and wither)
so it seems a rose will never die
if it grows amongst the heather

An Existential Journey of Fantasy and Discovery by V. Alarcón-Córdoba)


The Woodcock’s Crow

the woodcock crows
at the break of dawn
but no one’s there
to listen

hark hark ye
hear my plea
it sings
but no one
gives a care

then one day
the woodcock’s crow
was silenced! by a
poison in the air
(a silent deadly mist
that rose above
the factories
of despair)

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