His clothes were as black as the soul of December;
She asked him, half joking, “Love, why do you mourn?”
He answered, “My darling, I mourn for the roses
That die on this day in spite of their thorns,
“When they’re pulled from the bushes and packaged in plastic
To stand at the heart of some lover’s bouquet.
Shipped ‘round the world in cold February
To weaken, and wither, and die on display.”
And the roses are rootless, and too far from home.
Yeah, surrounded by strangers, they’re dying alone;
And year after year, and rose after rose,
The cycle continues, and that’s how it goes -
And all they learn about love is how quickly it goes.