The Beautiful Red Rose
A wilt flower,
The lost fragrance,
It will never recover,
For eternal, being left aside.
In its prime,
The fragrance is much sweet,
Enough to tempt bees,
A generation was born.
Oneness and self-deluded,
Being admired but left-deserted,
Thorns that sting and wound,
A generation is lost and downed.
edited: 26/11/2020
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