Twenty-ninth day of November of two thousand thirteen,
How to forget that desolate Friday,
From which my garden not already flourishes,
Starting the two roses that most I have loved.
It has dried all my soul since that day,
As much as I try to sow a new flower,
It dies, grows and there is no joy,
He agonizes my soul and blooms only pain.
The only rain that waters the garden,
It is every tear that comes from my heart,
The unique sun which shines and warms without end,
It is the memory of yours to the change of season.
The garden of dreams wither in pain,
Roses with feelings have no color,
And that is why I will never forget that day,
That my heart and my garden left in drought.
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