Closed circle, few are those that form us, few things that matter, the moon at night makes the sun seem like an illusion.

The uncertainty of thinking that the bouquet will wither, of thinking that the flowers will be gone and there will be no more, of seeing how the sea does not stop and the world does not stop turning, of thinking of a life without that flower that has always been there, of imagining an empty bouquet.

Everything is eternal while it lasts, but I want it to last forever, what would become of the view and the composition if there is only my rose?
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