On Loving the Rose

I touched the rose and, I have never been so pricked,
that blood rushed through my hands,
pierced my skin, and escaped my veins.

The rose I’ve seen, crimsoned by my blood
Watered by my sweat, aged by six long years of wait.
Her thorns never dulled by the seasons of sorrows,
And her petals never withered by the swarming locusts.

The pale rose captured the colors of the light;
Illumined the sadness of the dark;
Shone in white-pink brightness of the sunset,
She made the scenery fairer than the most wonderful.

I never found the love of the Rose in calming serene days.
I have not seen her in the movements, as she bends in fair winds.
I have been forsaken to see her budding in the greenery.

Yet I have seen her, withstood the storms of time,
I have found her embracing the soil, her dauntless spirit fights;
I saw her struggling for life, as the nectar being sipped in vehemence.
The rose waited and longed for her time, for her love.

This rose I knew once, and I shall know for the rest of the days
Now, I have to pick her. Cut her from the roots she grew on,
Bring her to the altar to offer before God, where she was made.

And she has to live the purpose, she has to be offered,
This time, not as a prairie rose lonesomely in her lot,
I will carry her down with me, and with me forever.