The Death of the Roses

When the rose dies, nothing is effaced
but the radiance, the color, the luster,
and the fragrance lives on: whenever
the east wind passes by, it breathes perfume.
The rose does not perish utterly, though
it die and its leafy stem be bent;
but I come to an end, and there ends with me an armful
of wishes and of the freshest dream,
and a desire that surged within my ribs
closes its eyes when mine are closed.
There perishes with me all that was of me; not even
the wearying pain is spared.
But my beloved — he is that fragrance,
like the blue phantom of desire.