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May 2018
Flowers, flowers and more pretty flowers.
That's all one ever thinks about Spring.

What about Thorns, I ask?
But no one seems to hear me.
All they want to know about is the Rose.

As the Spring I feel compressed,
Obstructed by the Strain of the stretching length.
Crushed by the load of impounding Stress.

But, I am a Rose.

My fragrance spreads joy to a billion others,
But no one releases me from the Thorn that binds me.

They're scared they say,
And I don't blame them.
For I beat myself to become this Rose.

So I stand, as Spring does,
Watched by a million eyes.

I bounce when the Stress of Summer arrives,
To live carefree another day.

Only to realize I've trampled on the Thorn.
The Thorn that Strains to cut the Rose away.
Written by
Beatrice Prior  Gaborone, Botswana
(Gaborone, Botswana)   
     Victoria Marks, Jocelyn and Beatrice Prior
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