That night I was born,

with me three roses. The next day three more, and three more, and others, everywhere they unfurled phosphorescent in last year's pink, red for love hidden in the slightest glance that has followed me since.

Entire walls loaded to bring spring; lilac, salmon, fuchsia October make me stand out as the Goddess of Love in my leisurely immortalizations, wreaths of burgundy hanging to crown me already a witness, to ignore the gallop, to foretell “I hear with my ear the flower-adorned one resting on the ground,

I hear the rose train”

I saw lined up single immortal precious preserved in their jar extolling eternal love and transformation, falsely.

Somewhere a centered horn trophy washed up depicting the marketable, conquered passion.

I sewed a thorn onto a boy's chest.

The most expensive so far depict the Eternal Rose, the most romantic name of a church I remember from childhood, a straight line from my parental home, there everything would end up.