I leave in the ship of the rose
the decision of the herbalist:
if you esteem her for her virtue
or by the aroma wound:
if it is intact as he wants it
or rigid as a dead woman
.The short ship will not say
what is the death you prefer:
if with the bow raised
in front of his victorious fire
burning with all the candles
of the scorching beauty
or drying in a system
of medicinal neatness.
The herbalist I am, gentlemen,
and I am disturbed by such protests
because in myself I do not agree
to decide my idolatry:
the garment of the rose
Burning love on your flag
and time whips the skeleton
knocking down the red scent
and the perfumed turgor:
then with a shake
and a long rain cup
There is nothing left of the flower.
That's why I agonize and suffer
preserving furious love
even in his last ashes.
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