I ventured 'round a bush of thorns,
Finding one rose that I shall treasure.
This bush filled with hate and fear
Has only one true pleasure.
This rose, what are its thorns for?
Are they used for spite?
This rose is too weak and naive for such!
(Though, I'm not sure. It might.)
Why do you have thorns, sweet rose?
Why not let your beauty come through?
Has the darkness made you blind, that the only things you find
In this world are all destructive and untrue?
I find no reason for your thorns!
Why not come under my care?
So, I picked the rose, and brought it home,
And that home of mine we shared.
After only a day, my rose died.
It withered, wilted and went away.
Now I know why my rose had thorns—
I had only found out on that day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
splendid write........... ..!