They live in their ivory towers watching the peasants gather the roses,
Roses for the pedals they will shed upon a floor of marble.
Rose pedals prick their hands as they gather them into the baskets
Piercing their lowly hands they still grab the most beautiful of the vines.
As they pick the roses, a carriage draws by waving a golden hand,
They bow.
The pedals they pick are diseased and corrupt with a volume of plague,
Giggles are heard as the children pick up the festering pedals and lay them upon the marble floor,
Trumpets announce a bride to enter.
She walks gracefully on the pedals of disease
Knowing
Loving
They all will fall like angels from heaven.
Lost,
Bewildered,
Thrown to the dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great, interesting piece. Enjoyed. -Kylie M. Lynch