Some bow down under the weight
of their beauty, their humble grace,
some have their gaze at the dirt
to contemplate time and its turns.
Some stay away from the light
but have their scent blossom each night,
some stay under their petal shells
but if one looks, one can tell-

Some roses bloom quietly
and they do not catch the eye,
Death cradles them like his child
When Life loses the die.