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The roses are dying again,
As this seems most normal now.
Drooping heads, a slow decay,
Upon each fragile, fading bough.
But they are the flower of love,
A velvet touch, a crimson stain,
The flower of beauty, brief and bright,
A pleasure mixed with poignant pain.
And even the flower of the lost,
The ones who slipped beyond our hold,
The departed souls, in memory kept,
In stories...
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