The Rose

 

 

I was the rose once

And much admired

Till someone plucked me

And I expired.

 

I came again alive

And grew to beautiful bloom

Multiplied and again, again

In order that I survived.

 

Again I was cut and ripped

And sheared from sunny spot

And once again I expired

In apathy at my lot.

 

But life was strong within me

I wanted to live anew

So the battle began again

And the first thorn I grew.

 

It was not of hate but defense

Of things beautiful and rare

So today you may find me

And pluck me if you dare.   

 

  by Iseult Healy