The Rose

The roses of a generation,
Send forth all their fragile spores,
Filled with hope and expectation,
Destined for some noble cause.

One spore lands on fertile earth,
Where pastures flourish, rivers flow,
Before long, the gentle birth,
The best of roses e'er to grow.

A whispering breeze through early petals,
Gentle, radiant and fair,
Night time, and the west wind settles,
Early days without a care.

The finest colours, sweetest stalk,
So fine now, upon the eye,
Of a passer, on an evening walk,
Through passers green, strolling by.

Most perfect rose, of all he sees,
Near the stream's side, fully grown,
He bends down by the willow trees,
To pick it, and to take it home.

But as his hand around it clasps,
A thorn embeds into his palm,
He rises, singularly gasps,
His blood dilutes the river's calm.

And so the rose was left alone,
Such tragic parting of the ways,
No passer, now, no beauty grown,
Both wept until their dying days.