The poor rose,
Blooming on thorns,
Exposed to sun,
Winds,
Enveloped in tender
Pink/white petals,
A divine form,
King among flowers,
Pleasing everyone,
Humans, of course,
It does not know
It has a special
Internal fragrance,
That scents our insides
And irrigates our soul!
Like,
Good poetry,
Rose uplifts,
And adds beauty,
Colours,
To dull
Sterile lives,
In urban ghettos,
And relieves,
Smiling on a sad corner,
The pain and desolation
Of the many
Miserable Auschwitz
Of the world brutal,
Then and now.
