An old man
who hadn't cried
for sixty years or more,
God knows,
was brought to tears
by the color
of an autumn rose.

The memories of bitten lips
and schooldays gone
did a-sudden reappear
with the very speed,
or so it seemed,
those days did disappear:
first kiss,
first love,
first holding of a hand,
first time he thanked God for woman,
and thanked God he was a man.

His first love's breeze
to remove a speck
so small
it could have been a lie;
her whisper
that roses go autumn-rose
only as they begin to die.