Rosary
Recently you descried that
the hands of mine were
full of crimson scars,
like the beads of a rosary.
”What are these wounds
on your palm?” you asked.
”Were they caused by
the elisabethian roses of your garden?”
I said nothing, just smiled blushingly,
but then later, while you fell asleep,
I leaned closely and whispered
my secret in your ears:
„In fact, all of these are
stigmatas of our love.
But possessing them makes me happy;
I wear them proudly.”
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