The rose and the briar;
such beauty so troubled.
Sharp thorns of deception,
the red rose of temptation...
the single touch of another's hand
becomes the jealous prick
of the briar so grand.
So the rose does tire,
of the envious briar,
it's beauty going to waste.
But little does she, the rose,
know the briar's trouble -
the jealousy, the pain, and the love.
But the briar feels it's just not good enough.
And so the blood of man adorns the thorn,
mimicking the red of the rose.
A disguise for the briar, who wants too,
the attention of the more than few
who fawn upon his lovely rose.
His glory, his pain, his princess.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem