Three little rose bud's that grew from a stem of thorns,
thriving from the earth of sweetness, the summer breeze
that tipped each bud into a curtsy, to the warmth of the sun,
as the gentle raindrops softly kissed each bud, so like a mother's love.
All blossomed into a beauty of it's own, as trailed away two,
from the vine, to sweet success. As the last of the beautiful roses
trailed away, how so very hard it tried, but sweet success was adamant.
Its vine could no longer withstand the elements of the world.
Neither the gentleness of the rain, the summer breeze, or
the wrapping arms of the sun could strengthen, for God needed
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem