A dream III

If the rose knew
how much she is loved,
would it change anything?

Does the rose need us
to say?

Would she, maybe, in fact, prefer
not a word to ever be said to her
for words just add weight
to the air?

May it be that words are poison
for whom cannot speak herself?

When I look at the rose, I feel how 

the forest grows so vast, inside myself.
If not for some strange magic
I think I would burst out in leaves.
If she knew 
how much she is loved,
would it change anything?

Only in dreams
she embraces me
and I wake up with pricked hands.