Red Rose. Red rose, with its glowing redness, sweetness -- for sweetness comes along with the act of perceiving rose's metaphor. Mild breeze and the rose plant. Shining summer day and the rose plant. Days, every passing days and the rose plant. Smiling, giggling roses on the rose plant. The idea of roses gain prominence over the existence of the rose plant. But roses die! Small black lines inscribe it. Roses die! But who suffers the seclusion out of this death -- the plant which lives the life of rose, or the one who imagines the metaphor of rose ? The thought that emanates from the occlusion of a tender flower, the thought that suffers the tyranny of death of flower; how much that thought is cared of ? Roses die. The perceiver of beauty of a rose caught by the emotion of death of rose suffers. Moves. Moves, but frequent honing of the aura of rose plant calls him. For there is a thought that the plant will remedy his vision. For he prays to God for the days. But the next time, the cold, the lack luster, unknown, remote coziness of the plant; the dry, lifeless lone branch where the flower earlier used to be, haunts him ... silences him. Introspection says -- "why you wished again to have the glimpse of the rose plant" ?