Oh! how I resemble to a plucked rose,
Soon my fragility,My beauty, My love will wither, I will wither! leaving my scent in the hands of my plucker,
My thorns will lose their roughness, I will decay into nothingness, This will be my punishment for falling for the wrong plucker,
The right plucker would have savoured my beauty,would have glassed my fragility keeping me safe from the dull world,
Would have caressed my thorns in acceptance, He would have known the value of my roughness, of my sharpness!
I would have been delicate to my kind gardener, he would have tendered my roots, I would have blossomed into a tree, His tree!
But My gardener is lost and I his delicate rose have fallen for a wrong plucker, who seeks pleasure in cutting my branches, My poor petals, Who has axed my stem So I can no longer bloom,
Now my leaves don’t dance with the wind, My roots no longer hold the ground, My stem no longer breathe, My branches no longer expand.
Once a bush full of life, now a decayed masterpiece! A warning for the fresh sprouts beware never fall for the wrong plucker!