The other day i found an old diary on my dusty bookshelf
The cover was almost eaten by the time
The pages were turned pale and glued in each other
The words were hazy like my vision of the past
But it had a red rose as dry as my eyes
its fragrance was intact until i touched it
It felt as if the time had preserved it so far just for my one last touch
My memories still cast the scenes of past
When the pages of this diary got the taste of the ink
When the roses were home every night in those pages
Slowly the time took everything away except those memories
And an old diary, its pale turned pages, hazy words and a dried red rose...
