Life is a journey
In the heart of the flower Rose
may be the end of my journey,
the reason for poems and prose
is just waiting there to be found.
Why we live, and why we die,
what follows up when all is over,
the Rose must know and doesn’t lie,
she promises the secret truth.
Should I open up the Rose now
and find all answers lying there?
If I do, will it tell me how
I can make such a rose myself?
I’ll leave the Rose alone to grow,
her lovely petals stay intact.
I do not really want to know
the reasons. Let me wonder them.