To love a garden full of thorns, To tend, to water, yet be pricked after all To have each rose hurt you, yet be lovelorn
Glimmering glass of your pick But another rose chooses the drink To be poisoned, yet be revived to remain lovesick
To have hate, feeling that never left But to love, nonetheless Is it legendary that care be unrequited, or is this gardener bereft?
Let go, scream the passersby Don't hope, one's mind cries But without hope, no garden lives life
Such task requires strength and wait Wither with every slight, any man can live such state But what is the pain of thorns to a rose they create
-Pranathi 10E
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