I was chosen as the gift;
To heal that fatal rift,
Be it single or in groups,
Either simple or decored in hoops.
Uprooted I am; homeless and hopeless,
Parted from my parts, being else's solace.
Once I was too much red,
I was in love, before a decade.
They cut my thorny shields,
And in her locks, I was sealed.
My beauty was admired in her hands,
Sometimes in the bouquet, sometimes in garlands.

Just as the love, my grace was wasted by the time,
I am kept in a page, love in a rhyme.
My red has turned gray, wilt in cold;
My petals are falling apart, like the melted world.
I was the rose, the gift of romance,
Now in the diary, memories to glance...


© ইচ্ছেpa लोक