The book you gave me lies on my desk.
Among its leaves an old red rose.
Neruda and Frost have crushed it:
Only scarlet petals remain.
The great towers of Babylon,
The might of Egypt, our sweet poems,
And all the philosophies matter not
If the whiff of the rose perishes;
I say this not out of sorrow
But an unshaken sense of wonder:
My life is a sum of all things
That touched me, small and beautiful.
Little red book, remain with me.
Among your leaves the old red rose.
Time flies, we go, but while I am
Her touch stays warm on this red book.