With a song in his heart,

 He paints a red rose bud on a stem,

The portrait of his ideal woman,

The artist;

His brush like a magic wand,

Unveils with gentle dexterity,

 Svelte and exquisite folds of a red rose bud;

A red rose bud,

That will crush under the weight of his hot kisses,

 Without wanting to spoil its purity;

The moist and warm lips of the red rose bud,

Soft and silky,

Innocence of innocence,

He paints with virtuosity, the artist;

The purple blush of the young bud,

The colour of passion that devours his enamoured soul,

The immaculate rose, pressed,

 Squeezed into a tight bud,

As pristine as the artist himself,

Never to unfold its petals to the stars,

Will be a picture of his dream girl,

A red rose bud on a stem,                    

A large bloodstain on a blackboard,

A perennial beauty by a stroke of his brush,

The fantasy of his seventeen years,

A lost love before the blossom of love,

Like a mirage on the shore of time


Processed with Moldiv

Processed with Moldiv