Wild Rose

The wind is quiet, wearily quiet this evening,
(and they say that winds do not age)
and I,
I am fondling the wild rose
with the inexplicable hope
that I shall find your tear on its petal.
Since you have gone, many a night has lost its brilliance,
and they tiredly walk my dark paths,
as if they grew old too,
just like our memories.
Those wonderful young nights
- in which we used to look at turquoise nets
woven by singing crickets during silky nights –
now they became completely tired and dark,
and they aimlessly wander my dark paths.
The wild rose's petals have long since stopped dancing,
because the wind no longer touches them.
They say that winds do not age,
perhaps not the desert winds,
but the cemetery winds certainly age and die
along with people and flowers.
It is so quiet and dark
in nights without you.
Everything died inside me
apart from the hope
that I shall see your tear on the trembling face of the wild rose,
the same tear
that was conceived in your dear, warm eyes
when I first kissed you.
How the night shone, how the wind was singing youthfully,
and the rose pensively sighed
when your tear slid onto it.
But now, everything is so quiet and dark,
and that wild rose
you used to fondle during storms,
like a lost child,
is perfectly quiet now,
perfectly abandoned.
Our wonderful young nights
grew old amidst our aimless wanderings,
just like I did.
The wind is so quiet this evening, so tiredly weak,
it pushes the night along my dark paths like a tired old man,
and I,
I am courting death like an aged old man,
because I know the end is near,
that our young nights shall become older with each new day,
and that your wild rose shall fade and completely disappear.