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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