Scent of mahogany

He is a man of many autumns
a man who weeps for his dead roses
His roses died from an epidemic
while other trees were in flowers
You can see the sad scene looking at his
modest eyes as he looks through you
with the sagging skin that folds his grief
beneath his chin

I'm in search for my roses he declares
the Red ones remind me of faces
lost in the outbreak every time i whisper
my agonies their shoulders start drooping
white butterflies appear from nowhere
and foretell death looming for my velvety kins

A reproaching wind carries a faint smell of mahogany
He sighs and tells you about the fragrant seeds
he has kept treasured in his valise

He is a man of many autumns
a man who still weeps for his roses