The roses and the thorns

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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.

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