La Rosa Roja
Liuba Maria Hevia
The Red Rose
In the sad morning of a winter day
a red rose I saw in your rosebush.
I wanted to offer it as a proof of love
and as I went to touch it, the rose pricked me, pricked me.
And as I went to touch it, the rose pricked me.
From my fingers sprouted the reddish blood
of a red as vivid as the flower
and I immediately said: love with wound,
what sweet pain!
That was my first and only love:
it was born from a rose,
perfume and thorn,
love and pain.
