They compared our beauty to a rose
But my petals are scarred and I am bleak
I bend down, for my steam grows weak
And from that steam grows a thorn.
It’s so heavy for someone, so worn.
Still, I carry it for my child, unborn.

Is it possible for a rose to morn?
What if from the rose, a bud never grows—
Not forgotten; not for many years;
What if you still hold him within your mighty tears?

I’ve experienced something, I know every rose fears.
Just like a seed sown in the Earth, he lays, still, so loved
By someone so hurt . . .
And only this wilted rose will know
Of a child . . .
—that never got to blossom
—that never got to grow

Wilted Rose They compared our beauty to a rose But my petals are scarred and I am bleak I bend down, for my steam grows weak And from that steam grows a thorn. It’s so heavy for someone, so worn. Still, I carry it for my child, unborn. Is it possible for a rose to morn? What if from the rose, a bud never grows— Not forgotten; not for many years; What if you still hold him within your mighty tears? I’ve experienced something, I know every rose fears. Just like a seed sown in the Earth, he lays, still, so loved By someone so hurt . . . And only this wilted rose will know Of a child . . . —that never got to blossom —that never got to grow