He was wandering at dusk,
aimlessly walking around Washington Park.
He examined all the trees and flowers,
except the roses, which stood out in the growing dark.

In the middle of the circular park,
he looked upon the old, faded lamp
shining with all its might over the waterscape.
At its base, he spotted one withered stamp.

He got on his hands and knees,
looking as if he wanted to see it closer.
But the sight of that rose-printed stamp had broken down the young man.
The image made him lose all sense of composure.

Nothing of what I saw made sense,
but I decided to leave that young man alone
in his poor and fragile state.
But it was later.
It was later that I read of Miss Rosie’s fate.