Where Thistles Grow
Where a rose tends,
A thistle cannot grow.
What then
do do,
As red petals fall to mud?
A garden lie,
In happy hearts.
Birds swing low,
As hearts swing
high.
The tear of rope,
Broke souls and swing.
Rain feeds the ground,
Oh
tender Earth.
Strike of the seamstress,
Grants hearts unmended,
To disappear,
In
their forever.
The garden shades,
First green then dark.
Petals crumbled,
With
tender's love.
A garden turns,
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