The plucked rose

I pluck the velvet white rose,
And I’m pricked by its guards, They prick me and have me bleed, But my evil intentions succeed.

The rose rests in my palm,
Smiles with a dignified charm, With my guilt full to brim,
I look back at the crying thorns,
No remedy, no balm,
Could do good the harm.

The lucky rose,
That raised fighters when attacked,
And left mourners when it froze, With its petals now blue,
Lies dry with no dew.



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