Not every rose that blooms
is ripe for our picking.
Not every Death
is an occasion
for our weeping.
For Death alone provides
the matter needed
for a new rebirth.
Sometimes
to really love someone..
The One who loves
must lose precisely that
which he believed to love
at first.

The only way to pick a rose
is by the stem..
laden with thorns.
The tighter that you try
to get a grip upon it..
The more they penetrate
into your flesh..
and bleed you even worse.
Until you learn to grip it
not much tighter..
but instead much lighter.
And in the act
of loosening your grip..
you make The Rose’s
blood red beauty..
even brighter.

In giving it the space to breathe
you let The Rose be
even stronger of a beauty
to behold.
It never was about the thorns
upon its stem..
But rather in the way its stem..
you chose to hold.