I turn in my hands the petioles of wilted roses
You are long gone, madam
And here I am sitting in the waiting corner
My rose has breathed her last perfume
All I have left is a secret
Secret says maybe madam will come
But I don't know when, where and how
Hope said let me go
Or stretch my soul on the coffin
Now spread it
To the last caves of the soul
As for me, Azalea,
Where residing in patience creeps my feet
And in my lonely night, the cooing of sadness
Carols on the boughs of azalea
And everything that surrounds me is the unit, the papers and the pen
Stain with ink
Every time I write to you reproach
What did you come from me, the flower of the azalea?
Your perfume seemed fresh and your color attractive
I planted your seed under my skin and plowed it with my hands
And from the juices of the heart, I will irrigate your land
It was the clouds
It was built of twenty-four tents for heat and cold
I do not intend, but I can not uproot you from my heart
Azalea disappears in the dark
And you complain unjustly, so you stab the heart
Now I performed funeral rites on my soul and heart together
And in myself you are immersed in longing
But we are dead together
and where you are
You think you are on a white cloud
When you wake up from your absence
Do not come to the ashes of my body
He is the purification of all pure passion
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