Beauty and Pain

She is like a rosebush
Cold and bare in the winter
Without leaf or petal to break
The unrelenting appearance of death.

In the winter,
Life's most difficult season,
The fool's first glance
Would deem her countenance unlovely.

But in the Spring,
As seasons change
and life begins to bloom anew,
Her beauty begins to grow.

And the good man,
Who stays the winter
Will pluck from her thorns
The first rose, her heart.

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