I see them standing upright, In that glass-flower vase. I smell their petals and adore them, In them I see a child's face'
Inside those deep red folds, Lies a sweet secret, That we never ever try to unfold. That flower just lives for a day, After that it is just a trashed object.
They came in a bunch tied in silver. The sight of them made my heart quiver, With the joy of having them and imagining The sight of them withered.
Roses, roses, roses! Oh the wondrous flower. They make everyone happy, they possess that power, Next morning they are just a withered mass. Their life brings joy and makes memories last.
A special rose always lives, No matter how withered or black. Cause a special joy it gives, So it dwells in those books on the rack.
That is just the reason why I wonder, Everyone must one day wither, But if you are a special rose, Your withered memory lives on and on and on forever.
