At My Touch It Turns Into A Faded Rose

It falls off a lot of people, heaven knows,
Yet no passerby catches sight of it,
I bend and pick it up,
At my touch it turns into a faded rose.

In one of those big cities
He wanders at this or that crowded spot
In the country at a far-off place where he is
In a hotel room or a coffeehouse;
Wherever he goes at this late hour
He sticks his hands into his pockets
And through cigarettes and pieces of paper
It gently slips out and goes,
I bend and pick it up, no one materializes
At my touch it turns into a faded rose.

Or it lingers on the lipstick
That a lonely girl takes off
On the threshold of another weary night
When she rests her head on the pillows
Sometimes at midday it cuddles up to me
You know it's on that same cloud of sorrows
That descends mostly at autumn or at rainfall.
I reach out and clutch it, no one materializes
At my touch it turns into a faded rose.

On hands and lips and desolate inscriptions
It gets caught in nets drawn across the night
Panting like a wounded animal
In anguish, he yearns to escape the net's throes
And to run along the roads or the mementoes.

Time and time again I take it along, it stays awake all night
Stirring in darkness, whenever I touch it
At my touch it turns into a faded rose.

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