Roses are mystical. A beaut!
They adorn palaces and the place everywhere.
The fragrance that smells so sweet,
Spread delight everywhere.
Greatly guarded by human’s love.
Tenderly sheltered in a cove.
Who heed about thorns?
A sore for eyes: the salt in the wounds.
It stabs and oozes bloods from brawns.
And it pricks you when you are around.
But it’s only guarding the rose.
And let you compose a prose.