Alone, I hold this single red rose,
Tired, its petals are gilded by mold,
When you spoke, were those lies that you told?
Why couldn't you be honest for one more day?
To you, this was only another springtime flower
It's almost dead, winter is near, I suspect,
Next year, even tho the roses will bloom again,
There will never be another, like this one here,
In fact, I hear stories they might all dissappear!