I am now nothing but a lonely bleeding rose,
but still I’m who stands proud in her shrubs
no matter that she is red,
red of blood, red of her so many sacrifices
that she made to others
just to bring them a small smile.
She is red in blood, yes..
she is in pain but,
in the eyes of others she is full
and beautiful and innocent,
and yet somewhere proud
and cold.
But only one of those can sense her fear,
can smell her sacrifices,
can see her smothered all in blood,
bruised and unloved,
and only he would gently pick her up,
harvest her, cultivate her and heal her
and again love and devote to her
for whole his life,
whole his soul.