If we want to own the rose we must bring about its death,
shatter the sacred continuity of its cycle.
All death comes as an act of possession.
Beauty dies because of our compulsion to understanding
cannot satisfy itself with its lack of answers;
it must prod the timeless freshness of its scent.
Man’s hands are wilting machines.
Whatever he touches dies
because he is the hand of death.
And then he wonders: “why do things vanish,
why is my yearning for persistence always met with loss…?
Because we want to possess the rose
-the moment as fleeting as the freshness-
because things possessed and known
travel in time where death is the ultimate destination
and we are the deaths’ dark knights.

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