Such a beautiful flower, a rose. Sweet delicate and perfumed scent. Grown in the fields of the Motherland. No prickly thorns to pierce the skin. No bitter poison to subdue my senses. Moistened by the sweet Caspian rain. Encouraged by the warm summer sun. The bud burst open, the petals formed. Curling outward, arching their soft lips. A small shadow cast upon the ground. Picked by the hand of God himself. Placed in a vase upon my shelf So that I may look admiringly. But never hold it in my hands. What sweet sorrow awaits. Cut me another stem. One I can touch. One I can hold. Forevermore.