Oh! the red roses are in bloom!
And close by a bush of white
All nodding softly in the night breeze.
Some of the roses are yet bright;
The fading of the rest brings
A wild, feverish, frantic impatience
To my electric senses—
These roses must not die wasted!
I want to pluck a red and white
And rush across the midnight town
To let you have them quickly.
The roses to you would bring delight
And to me also for their purpose;
They would not lie unseen,
To die without a worth,
Without a cause; I pluck.
And yet—who are you?—
Except the personification of the fact
That I have no-one to give them to?
I stand with the roses—
And listen to the night—
And stare at the roses—
And all of a sudden
I don't care about the roses anymore.
I throw them down—
And walk slowly inside.
—jim sloman, summer 1961
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