If you had a rose for every sorrow,
You'd have to pick a whole field,
Petals whispering tales of tomorrow,
In hues of pain, love, and yield.
Each thorn a memory, sharp and true,
In gardens where shadows gently creep,
A bloom for each heartache, every rue,
In the soil of secrets buried deep.
Yet amidst the thorns, beauty grows,
A tapestry of vibrant grace,
For in our sorrow, wisdom flows,
A dance of light, a tender embrace.
So gather the roses, one by one,
In their fragrance, find hope, and run.
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