I see roses
weighing down the branches
of loaded bushes,
her delicate hand
caressing the chosen ones,
the shears glinting, solemn,
under the hot summer sun,
and I almost hear
the cries of the fallen.
I see roses
weighing down the branches
of loaded bushes,
her delicate hand
caressing the chosen ones,
the shears glinting, solemn,
under the hot summer sun,
and I almost hear
the cries of the fallen.
Beautiful! Want to read more.
Thank you for your comment, Nikki.