A black rose once bloomed,
In a garden doomed,
To hear jeering laughter,
Slave of the white master,
Cry, for rose bushes have thorns,
Laugh, for there are roses on bushes of thorns,
White’s grown common, see the unique,
Make them belong that’s the trick,
Often abused, hurt and exploited,
Harshly spoken to, tactlessly treated,
These buds are not allowed to gloom,
Dipped often by birth...
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