The rose was
not looking for the morning:
on its branch, almost immortal,
it looked for something other.
The rose was
not looking for wisdom, or for shadow:
the edge of flesh and dreaming,
it looked for something other.
It looked for something other.
It looked for something other.
The rose was
not looking for morning:
on its branch, almost immortal.
The rose was
not looking for wisdom, or for shadow:
the edge of flesh and dreaming,
it looked for something other.
It looked for something other.
It looked for something other.
It looked for something other.
It looked for something other.
The rose was
not looking for the morning.
The rose was
not looking for wisdom.
The rose was
not looking for shadow,
it looked for something other.
