Her hands are weak
barely holding the roses.
White, snowy cold.
She dozes off
to a world where roses don't get old.
As she walks on by
I don't know what is whiter -
the petals or her bones
the whiter sun cradles,
stealing shy smiles of melting snowflakes.
Marble marvel in her eyes
when a drop of snowtear falls,
she cannot hold the roses anymore,
yet the marble plate is close.
She's almost there.
Row thirty-three and thirty-four,
that is almost what she wants.
Silence seems to be broken
by the silent walker
and the faint rose fragrance.
Smiling souls are the only companions
to the old red bugs on the ground,
creating the life the stillness lacks.
They make no sound.
I poke the ground
with a wooden bone,
for the roses are gone
and so is the warmth
of the breath, the spell of the crucifixion,
the conviction. The blame. The pain.
Anastasia Siljanoska
