She walked to the forest
To hide a rare rose.
Her rose needs water.
Not even a river can quench it.
Drops or liters,
Heavy rain or drizzle...
While the soil is watered,
More the rose dries.
Dew on kisses is what it expects.
That is the cure for what it has.
YOU ARE READING
Cold days of a heart on fire
PoetryI should scream to the universe, But what is my voice after all? It is just one more between billions, And, with my death, it will not exist. So it is better for me to show what I need By writing my love, anger and dreams So I can make people see on...
