I hear the loneliness of the fields
and smell the fake of time;
I've watched how long you've been waiting
for one spark of sincerity, although the hearts are
dried and the flowers have died,
once they were thousands in bloom
and there was truth in the hearts;
now we can't say anymore
that the rose is our eternal responsibility
not even that the truth will set us free.

Maybe, that was the plan,
the very first intention since the
beginning of humanity;
like the dinosaurs that turned into
extinct giants of themselves;
the human being is now the legend
of his own history; a lost dust floating
on the dried ways of any other lost memory.

Who has the blame on all that?
Who has turned your being upside down
and told you not to be a decent and reliable one?
Why can't you just follow your way
without haste, without hate,
with no demons coming from within?
The harvest is equal to the delivering of the seeds, always;
and the thunderstorm in your eyes is the only reason for knowing better
what is running into your heart.

You, the one who is reading these words,
you're the only one responsible for your rose,
you're in charge when the matter is the life that you've bred or
brought to your side,
fathers and sons, friends or a couple of lovers,
children and pets, a gardner and his rose...
No man in the world can spend feelings in vain, because
feelings are never rescued again,
the rose is every little part of the heart
which we've been using to give love and care,
and this ought to be eternal, because each
feeling that we've been wasting in vain is a little
part of our own heart that we lost along the way.

And, so, there'll be only the loneliness of the fields
and sons that laugh only if they are having their laughing pills;
that's so unbelievable...
The hearts are dried like the old Scrooge and his story...
Parents and sons, children who'll have not even the meaning
of love to keep into the memory.

Do you really think that it's not important,
and do you believe that it's not your fault?
Do you really believe that it's not to get worse?
Do you really think that we won't need love,
that we can live after we've killed our rose?