hidden from touch, are the tears a rose cries, then fades away, she shrivels and dies.
Wo pretty rose, death stalks real, and there's no one to hear you, or the pain you feel.
Life's based on death, on land and in seas, and only man, is heard on his knees.
Only man has God, to hear his cries, to jusdge his soul, to live or to die.
Poor child of life, young flower in bloom, your soul or flesh, is already doomed.
Emty of loves nourishment, each pettle falls, natures tear drops, come in the fall.
By Donald L Holmes
