I pass by this rose.
She’s all wilted and dried.
She’s all sad, crestfallen, severely miserable.
She looks like she wants to kill herself.
Her petals are no longer a usual shade of red.
It’s now dark scarlet and black.
I watch her; her faint whispers are telling me:
“Kill me… kill me… I want to die.”
I don’t want to kill the rose in sorrow.
She’s way too innocent to die.
I touch her stem, hoping that
I may take her home.
However, when I grip the stem
With my fingertips,
Its thorns stab the skin.
I watch the blood
Trickling down my fingers.
I hurts, but the pain
Only lasts for one second.
Looking at the blood
Suddenly gives me an idea.
Right next to the rose
Is a little bud, an infant
Waiting to grow and bloom.
Since I cannot save that rose,
I decided to try something else.
I feed my own blood to the baby.
I repeated the same procedure.
Stabbing my fingers and my palm
With the thorns
And then giving the blood
To the little bud.
This is done for the past week.
Finally, after seven whole days,
The little baby rose has already
Bloomed with her petals as red
As my blood.
But for that crestfallen rose
Whose thorns I’ve been
Using to feed the infant,
She’s already gone.
She has died.
Her petals have fallen around the stem.
I pick up one of her petals.
I want to cry
Because she was my favorite.
Then suddenly,
Her faint voice whispers to me.
“Thank you for everything…”
“Now, it’s time for me to go…”
“Please take good care of my baby…”
“For me.”
I gaze at the rose’s baby,,,
Who is now a sobbing orphan…
For the suicide of her mother.