I was thirteen and I had got a date one day,
My very first ... and I was so excited ...
I went ahead and flowers bought bouquet,
- Twelve scarlet roses - hoping heart of hers to get ignited.
I was stood up - she did not make the date ...
I felt ashamed, embarrassed and betrayed!
Those flowers burned my hands and made me be suspect,
They yelled that I am a failure and reject.
I threw away this evidence of shame.
To glowing roses I assigned the blame.
In instance came relief, despair went away.
I still remember vividly that day,
Experienced by me half century ago.
But recently this story came again to me to grow ...
While walking down the street I noticed the bouquet - exactly that,
Or very similar - I couldn't tell you more,
Which lay abandoned on the top of parapet,
- It was another failure of distraught amour!
I picked it up and gave it to the girl,
Who came across in sudden stroke of luck.
The one I'd never met, and though the street was dark,
So beautiful she was and precious as a pearl!
She took my gift and paid me with a smile.
The happy end of story ! .... Though it took a while.
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See Russian "white poetry" translation at
http://www.stihi.ru/2012/11/29/1193