He held the rose
Its pinching thorns, the hurt so deep;
Its red droplets falling and desecrating
The floor, its hallow.
On this floor to throw
If not as a bouquet or a tall plant to grow
Falling red droplets
Will colour my white lilies.
Reddish to become in bloom on hallowed floor;
Red lilies without thorns
Will embrace and return my love
My love, no more hurt will feel.
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