The Roses

The Roses,

The Roses,

You've smelled the roses!

Blossoming buds of the sweetest perfumes,

Beautiful but harmless,

You will always assume.

Be careful, oh maiden,

Of the sharp hidden thorns,

There will be no trumpets,

No sounding of horns.

Take care of how you pick the flowers,

For that wound shall last for days,

Not hours.

Though dazzling they are,

Their beauty and cold,

Of all the pains,

You've now been told.

And though their petals,

Are there to please the eye,

If you are pricked,

They shall devour your cry.