The Girl With The Rose

My friend had that picture when I had first seen
A girl, so full of life but not so serene.
She held a red rose in her soft hands
And was crossing some barren wastelands.

She was looking somewhere, away from my view
Her black opal eyes hid her secrets, giving no clue
Her coal-black hair flying, but still steady
I had forgotten it was a still picture, already.

She was wearing a charm, not a locket, but her smile
Strange it seemed, when she was in a place hostile
But she was different from all the girls I had seen
Brave and beautiful, protected from all that is obscene.

A praise wasn't enough for her lips so red
Almost as soft and serenading as the rose she had.
Black clouds above were about to rain
But she was determined without any abstain.

More fascination in her was because she was my age
Young, still she was more than I can ever describe in a page
I wished if only I could ask her the trouble
The girl with the rose walking through a plain covered with stubble.

I asked the friend not interested with the picture to lent it to me
I said,"Whenever I will be sad, I will just pick it up and see."
It was most beautiful thing I ever saw in my being
And was the only thing that really was worth seeing.

But my friend snatched her and tore her apart
You see, to me she had become more than a picture or art.
Then he came close and said,"You will have her in your dream
Talk to her, she will be over the stream."

And that night I really did had the dream
She was more beautiful in real that it had seem
I didn't know her name so I waved towards her
She smiled at me and faded after becoming a blur.

All that had left of her was only her rose
I picked it up and wished if only I had got close
I would've asked her of her trouble and misery
I only wanted to look at her even if she would've remained a mystery.

I went to my friend's house the next week
He asked me jokingly did I got to make her speak
In an anger I told him that she faded away
Suddenly my friend turned quite and asked "What did you say?"

I told him of the dream, the girl and the rose
As his expressions changed I knew he didn't tell me everything he knows
He was puzzled and said while he whipped his and my ice cream
"Strange when my grand father did the same I didn't even have the dream."

Then he gave me the picture intact
He had faked the tearing as his Grandfather had
She was not really my age but I wonder did she ever repose
I felt something with that girl, that girl with the rose.