by Maria Bertalan

Created on: September 15, 2009   Last Updated: September 16, 2009

Winking the fragrant roses on either side,
pebbles thrown in a very nice way.
Red, gray, color-tale sweet dream,
With aching heart I pass this way.

Leads to the legs, I'm almost did not feel it.
Why is this garden?-Again, again I ask ...
Why this way, why there are beauty roses?
If on they petals hot tears spray.

Yet, always I come back,return here,
sigh I get to the big black iron gate.
I know every beauteous flower,
with my soul I see a little child.

Black his hair, still wet from my blood,
Oh, son you have a very nice face.
As the gravel bright spark
a second the three-day revelry.

And a sad day for the happy moments,
now I waiting for a comforting word.
But the roses, stones do not speak
golden letters I ask you ...from to you.

Gold is the paint on the grave-Peter
Marble, there at the end of the road.
I'm walking , , and it takes the week legs
anxious heart of the great sorrows.

On my shoulder is my life, with huge weight,
My shaking feet can barely stand.
I would like to pass the burden
only once you regain your life.

I look at your name, my face is wet... I feel,
why this garden, I re-ask and ask again.
Why this way, why are the beautiful roses?
If on their petals have always tears spray.

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