One is a beautiful rose,
Another is the silver light of the moon
In which the rose’s petals close,
Yet open again at dawn of June.
One is a dream yet to be born,
Another is a dream that already lives,
Neither of them I want to scorn,
Nor do I want them as my captives.
One of them is yet to ripen,
Another is a mature fruit
That I have already bitten,
But one is still just a shoot.
One of them I am ought to love, of that I’m sure,
But I have to be wise and patient,
So that I can endure
To the very end, when this poem will be just an old parchment...
