Red, red rose—
not for sure
from this ancient Earth.
Yet it seems so close
to the eyes, to the heart;
then there's the thorn—
you can't touch!
Not sure what
the nightingale sang,
yet a heady fragrance
seems to whisper:
"Heart, eyes, hands—
whatever you feel, say freely;
mine are yours,
I wish you could see!"
Apr 25, 2024
Apr 25, 2024 at 8:41 AM UTC
Red, red rose—
not for sure
from this ancient Earth.
Yet it seems so close
to the eyes, to the heart;
then there's the thorn—
you can't touch!
Not sure what
the nightingale sang,
yet a heady fragrance
seems to whisper:
"Heart, eyes, hands—
whatever you feel, say freely;
mine are yours,
I wish you could see!"