This rose is without why, how and where else,
and it blooms for the last time in Cairo:
petals wither and fall like the last tears  
you shed impotently, without regard      
to the cataclysm that caused all;   
some say look at the vase half full, the ending
for one being just another's beginning —
won't they go home one night and realize  
some day there will be no rose anywhere?
Only these bristled words are resolute.