The wind is quiet, wearily quiet this evening,
(and they say that winds do not age)
and I,
I am fondling the wild rose
...
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With those wonderful young nights! ! Nice piece of work. Thanks for sharing.
The poetry about the wild rose and its decay represents the life itself that I think, and this poem is a little philosophical one in my thoughts.
(I shall see your tear on the trembling face of the wild rose, the same tear that was conceived in your dear, warm eyes when I first kissed you.) Beautiful work, much enjoyed!