The Stem is Cut

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By Isaac Coronel

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You were made well

O Rose, lovely bloomed.

I would not leave you,

E’en should I be doomed.

 

A chance I took, surely

To plant this seed deep.

To commit my life fully,

For thine sake, not reap.

 

Then why hast prick’d me?

So cruel, these thorns, I detest!

Did I not fulfill thee truly?

I beg thee, leave my pain in rest.

 

This blood loss is more red

Than wounds of battle.

More so than thy pedals, shed

When you were ever that ill.

 

I gave you my all,

Crossing six thorns.

I took Athena’s call,

All shouting and ringing with horns.

 

But to watch you grow further,

I gave thee mine music.

To sing to you life in cold winter

Was a joy not to see you sick.

 

Now, I am so bitter,

That I care not of your soul.

Here will I let you wither,

And be among others so foul.

 

And yet, I pity you greatly

For I love you as me.

O Rose, how I think, so lately,

That one day, you’ll be a tree.

 

But the stem is cut,

So too late will you grow.

From the ground one day you’ll jut.

Until then, my Rose, I let you go.