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The vine grows through thorn and thistle
in wind which howls and whistles
reaching for daylight to give it's first bloom
will it reach or will it trade fate for doom
while weeds grow to choke this up
the vine will never cease for it is not curruped
years go by,while the vine still pushing
almost at dawn it is never ceasing
the buds readying their first bloom
but yet the rose that was to be has met it's doom