Rose

Somewhere in the field,
Stands the bane of the meadow,
Emerging from its shield,
A bud that lengthens the shadow.

With roots firmly in the mud,
And a stem that lengthens each day,
Petals reflecting the colour of blood,
Never washed or blown away.

Many want to make its roots torn,
To pick it away from its pleasure,
But best be careful of those thorns,
Not everyone deserves such a treasure.

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