Whisper only and I will write
of red roses and butterflies
for you to read and understand
things of the heart
greater than any song.
I will tell you of red roses
that once were fragrant and nice
but are now laid waste in the garden,
naked and prostrated in their dusts.
I'll sing you a song of a butterfly
that visited a garden one day
and, seeing the dead, poor roses,
shed a tear, yet turned and flew away.
And if you should ask, "Am I the rose?"
I'll keep silent, shed a tear, perhaps--
then turn to fly away like a butterfly
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