The tragedy of the rose is its thorns
The existence of these it always mourns
It unintentionally causes scorn
It cannot help the way that it was born
For this reason, it will always feel lorn
It knows death comes swiftly once it is shorn
If it causes pain, when you reach to touch
It fills with sadness for you cannot clutch
It looks as if it is trying to please
This it wants, with no agenda to tease
If it has driven you to turn and stray
It desires not to force you to stay
Its aim was only to give love and care
With a pure heart, always, this it does swear
