Time must have covered it over
with roses so
it would not be remembered.

One particular rose,
that has an unexpected magic,
on top of each lonely hour of gold
or shadows,
a place just right to hold painful memories.

So that among the divine
and joyful
climbing roses, scarlet, white,
which would leave no room for the past,
the soul would be
wound into
the body.

Author: Juan Ramón Jiménez