deepundergroundpoetry.com

a precious dry rose

A
garden
of redroses
was smiling
in front of me,
but I loved only
the red rose that
died and was
hidden in
my
diary.
Neither
it
was
scented
nor
it
was  
to
be
valued.

But for me it was priceless
as it was somehow alive as
a memory in the dilapidated pages..
n  I am very happy about..!
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