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