Never Seek to Sell thy Love;
A path of well worn thorns,
sweet rose each face adorned.
Each cup of silk,
one face in tears exposed.
Holes that moths would make,
but never sew.
It is red of heart within you plant too find,
I know.
You hold a spot,
where trees and sport hath walked too know.
Love has flown,
I pass your wives, alas their bags are full.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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