The death of the rose

He died of bad smell.
Identical, exact pink.
He subsisted to his beauty,
He succumbed to his fragrance.
He had no name: perhaps
They would call her Rosaura,
O Rosa-fina, or Rosa
of love, or Rosalba;
or simply Rosa,
as water names it.
More would have been worth
always be alive, Dalia,
thought with moon
like a bouquet of acacia.

But she will be eternal:
it was pink; and that is enough;

God keep her in his kingdom
at the right hand of dawn.

FUENTE

FUENTE