What if the rose you care for
hurts you with its thorns?
Will you still care for her,
or will you turn your face
to another flower?

What if the rain you wait for
falls in another place?
Will you still wait,
or will you go inside your room
and paint the sky of grey?

I fell in love with the morning sun.
Creeping up the hill and
softly touching my skin
But he can’t stay warm forever.
The more he shows himself,
the more I get heat and burnt.

What if your paper boat
that floats in the river
is stopped by a big black stone?
Will you let it be damaged
and make another one,
then send it down to another river?

And what if the leaves
you collect every morning
choose to scatter across your yard?
Will you gather them again,
or let them cover your garden?

Whatever you do about them,
and whatever they do to you,
it’s better for you to wake up
in the morning
and take a deep breath.
For breathing is the only way
to release your worry.

I spent many hours this morning
just searching for the right words
and placing them in my poem.
Like busy bees, flying back and forth,
from one flower to another,
making honey without earning money.

Sometimes I write so fast,
pretending to conquer time,
like the rain falling hurriedly
to chase the running river,
which longs to reach the waterfall
and rest in the sea
before entering the ocean.

I think there’s a poet within my soul.
When I watched the dark sky melt
into a cup of coffee,
with sparkling stars as its sweetener,
and the pale moon chose to stay
in the bright sky,
the poet whispered into my mind.

Then I turn into the wind,
moving the leaves.
Or the sun’s rays
piercing through the leaky roof.
This poet has lived within me
since I was born,
but he had been sleeping
until a butterfly entered my belly.

This poet can’t sleep anymore.

I wonder,
does the rose know that
so many people love it?
Even the thorns that grow from its stem
don’t discourage anyone from picking it,
just to express their love.

I, too, once fell in love
and wanted to ask a rose for help.
Just to convince someone that
I’m not playing around.
I’m romantic.

But then I felt foolish.
How could I love someone if
I didn’t love the rose?

The rose grows because
its roots love the universe
that raised it.

Next time,
when I fell in love again,
I chose to remain silent.
I no longer wanted to express my love.

I felt more at peace,
watching the rose grow and bloom,
radiating its beauty and fragrance.
It knows better how to love.

And I think that’s why we all love it.

Without ever saying a word.