Red was the blossom.

Came to us once a poet whose view differed,

Who adored fragrant and gorgeous roses.

In sounding distichs

Praised the rose and proudly censured

That ruddy blossom.

There are rough souls that have trod life’s path alone,

Thorns and prickles enveloped them entire.

What did their hearts hold?

Bloomed they but once and bloomed they at night, look!