Scattered at the end of time
Generation after generation of roses, I wish there was one in it.
To avoid forgetting,
A rose without marks and symbols.
Between things that once existed, fate
Give me the privilege, let me for the first time
Say this silent flower, the last rose
Milton once put it in front of his eyes,
And you can't see. Oh, you are crimson and orange.
Or pure white flowers, from the withered garden,
Your ancient past has been magically preserved.
Shine in this poem,
Gold, blood, ivory or shadow
Like an invisible rose in your hand.