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The Last Rose

On a snowy day,

In a dimly lit street,

An ailing girl, utterly dismayed

Perches under the canopy of an enormous tree.


Looking heavenward,

Her eyes well up a little.

Perhaps she’s waiting for a special someone,

But all that comes to her are snowflakes, frosty and brittle.


She tears the icy veneer of the earth

With her gloved fingers.

And buries a white rose beneath the dirt

For someone whose memory still lingers.


For someone who forever will be unknown.

For someone whose face may never be shown.

Is it a friend? Her mother or father?

Brother or sister? Or a secret lover?


Standing on her trembling feet,

She leaves unnoticed.

Like spring breeze, her legs sweep

Graceful and delicate.


She comes back the next day,

Welcoming an eclectic mix of rumors.

“Perhaps she has lost her way.”

“Perhaps she has lost her sanity”, the crowd infers.


Little heed does she pay

To their insolent conjectures.

For she knows that her pain

Is beyond anyone’s comprehension.


Is it repentance?

Regret or sorrow?

A cry for happiness,

Should there be another tomorrow?


Her face is sallow,

Almost ghostly,

With tears of silent sorrow

Trailing down incessantly-


For someone who forever will be unknown.

For someone whose face may never be shown.

Is it a friend? Her mother or father?

Brother or sister? Or a secret lover?


As the sun begins to dip,

She buries her second rose.

And up and down moves her quivering lip,

Demanding a remedy for her woes.


She walks away stealthily,

Promising a return.

Etched are her footprints on the ground utterly chilly,

Spotting which are snow-clad ferns.


The third day, she arrives

Well before dawn.

On the snowy ground she lies,

Fatigued and withdrawn.


Snowflakes fall on her petite frame,

Draping her as if to offer solace.

In solitude, she murmurs a name,

As tears escape her eyes without a trace.


Hours pass by quickly

To welcome the gloomy morn.

Nearing the little girl is an old man, pale and sickly

Who realizes that she’s long gone.


She’s set free now

From all her miseries.

On her visage dwells no frown,

But an iridescence of sheer glee.


Uniting with her beloved,

Gone are her woes.

In snow her lifeless body is clothed

Perhaps she’s the last rose-


For someone who forever will be unknown

For someone whose face may never be shown.

Perhaps it’s a friend, or her mother or father,

Or her brother or sister, or a secret lover.





I Died Yesterday... ►


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Shifa Maqba

Tue 11th Aug 2020 11:17

Thank you, Kevin and Chloé, for your generous roses!

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Shifa Maqba

Sat 25th Apr 2020 11:20

Thank you so much for your kind words, Po! It's amazing poets like you who keep me going.

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Shifa Maqba

Thu 25th Apr 2019 16:59

Thank you, Mae and M.C. Newberry! Means a lot!

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Mae Foreman

Thu 25th Apr 2019 14:44

Beautiful and craftily made! Bravo!
Thank you?

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M.C. Newberry

Thu 25th Apr 2019 13:57

A "picture in words" that draws the reader into its story - needing to
know how it ends. Vivid and sad at the same time, it is well worth the

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