The Rose

July 1, 2012
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Pluck a petal,
Can he love me?
Raised to my lips,
Then soaring on the wind
It blushes and drifts on goodbye.
He loves me not.

Pluck another,
Will he love me?
Dangled over the brook,
Then unleashed into the current
It dips and floats on farewell.
He loves me not.

Oh, the faith in a rose,
To tell what we refuse to hear.
Divulge a secret,
Unveil a story,
Perhaps the rose is just a rose
To collect the dew,
And paint the hills,
Nature’s gypsy, thus emerged.

Pluck a petal
Does he love me?
Fastened behind my ear,
Then brushed from behind
It glides to the earth and I turn to see
My place of thought, discovered.
He loves me.

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