The beauty and aroma of that kingly pink rose, caught my sense and forced me to pluck that natural pose. Attracted by its mystery, knowing little about its history, just looking at its pinky blush, my feelings ran deeply flush. belatedly I went near it, and tried to pluck it. I extended my hand, but its warrior thorns pricked my hand. there was a deep intense pain, my wish to attain that flower went in vain. the red droplets of blood flew down my hand, to stop the flow I tied a white band. the white purely turned red, indeed,never thought this will be the reward I will get. now on, I even never looked at the flower, as for, I already had a blood shower.
the scar of wound and the fear of pain remained in my heart, I always maintained distance from it and remained far apart.
When a rose turns old petals fall but the rose bud remains and its beauty and fragrance leaves a lasting impression in our minds Sure the beauty and fragrance of a rose lasts but briefly but the rose garden goes
It slithers, the tongue trying to find the rage on cold words. A window shuts on fire for a deliberate withdrawl from conflicts. The virgin iron becomes a corpse under the golden amnesia of hot greens. The colors are changing