She is fragile in her beauty
Yet strong in her being
Having stood so long on her own.
Having the appearance of being delicate
Of weakness and antiquity in her favour,
She forever grows:
Parts age and others start,
Some die and others age.
A circle is what her life is;
Always producing elements of beauty.
She loves both rain and shine alike
And fears no one-
For she is her own protector,
Her own defender till the end.
Her beauty distracts to those
Who unwittingly try
And remove a part of her.
For under the cover of leaves And twigs,
her armory resides-
Thorns so tough and sharp
Are made to maim and blind
To protect her baby blossoms.
She is of contrasting colour;
Of midnight and light green
For her leaves
And of the deadliest red of passion
Makes her blossoms.
Tell me you know her
And I say you lie,
For those she does know
And whose company does enjoy
Shall never be pricked by her thorns,
For they know that she is to be admired
And loved and cherished
Where she is
And will always be.
A lonely soul amidst weeds.
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