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"I love.
I love roses.
I love red roses;
I don't love the thorns."
A rambling rose,
The perfect, sweet scented,
Rambling rose of June,
Gently touched by one dew drop,
Quivers momentarily,
Knowing it is loved.
Standing on the fragile doorstep of time,
A tall, but kindly man,
Sprouting a gray beard,
Tips his hat
As if to say "Good morning,"
To the waking world,
Deep within the heart of the rambling rose;
"I will give you to my love."
The rambling rose graciously nods its head;
The dew drop falling to the ground, like a tear;
The rambling rose aware that in consenting,
Its time has come.
"You are beautiful and you are loved,"
He explains to it tenderly,
As he severs its life line
With a firm, but gentle cut;
"If my pain was to endure, I'd surely die;"
"My love will live on, through you."
"You have given me a perfect, rambling rose;"
"I will not bore you with my thorns."
"The rose hip lives on;
If you hang it upside-down to dry
And plant it."
"I will see you again,
Love, beyond the rose and thorn,"



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