We can always speak about afterwards.
The artificial rose that preceded me
remains indifferent with its
golden stains, turned
towards the image of the city.
Many were the roses already named,
but this one also has its virtue,
plastic thorns simulating
the abrasion living these days has become.
Duration resistant to time,
to appetite and to the sun that swathes it
with the same indifference.
On the edge of being, its shadow
harbours more life and almost reaches me.
Rose, gold, gaze, it arouses
in its duplicity the desire
and the plenitude of loving,
against the glass pane that divides me.