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Ages have gone

since I last saw you,

stones have weathered and eroded

while vines lie withered and death

along the old, crumbling walls.

I walk in to the old creaking house and see

the old rose in its old dusty vase,

long dead, only a shell

of the rose I gave to you with dewy petals

that smelled of a sweet, fragrant scent.

And when I see you,

your appearance is that of the rose,

withered and dry,

but a radiance shines through,

erasing the earthly body that is your shell,

and you become

beautiful,

a young, fresh rose.

A friend asked me to write a poem with the theme that "nature's beauty is transient, but one's beauty will never fade."