a 100o roses

You stranger there;

standing in my corridor,

who are you?

Which mask do you choose

to wear today?

Do you bear

the face of a fever victim

or a starcrossed lover?

Do you wear

angel wings or death shrouds?

Do you have for me

a thousand red roses

with ten-thousand thorns

or a flask of cyanide?

Are you my life's love

or my life's end?

Ah well, I suppose

it's all the same

in the end.