How much my woman quite resembles a rose.
Though it may seem her face is demure,
My woman is the kindest here.
There she stands, in that strong woman pose.

Her facial expression so relentless,
As a rose's thorns so merciless.
But her touch divulges her pureness,
Like an opening rose, never erroneous.

But soon shall my rose deteriorate.
Though her time not squandered away.
Enlighted my rose is day by day,
My woman's ways I hope to assimilate.

No, I cannot recoup for troubles I put her through.
I know she didn't expect me to comport too.
Like a new rose always recoiling back,
My mother's love bigger than a rivulet.