For each blessing,
there is a petal.
For each sin
there is a thron.

Fortune and grace,
from which each rose is made.
It is blood and soul,
to which the thorn is paid.

As the moon caresses the night,
the beauty is just as bright.
A storm grip to the stalk,
new pain for every walk.

For each life risen,
Another dies.
For each truth spoken,
Another lies.

Trust the rose,
make it yours,
and watch the blood trickle down your trembling hand.
To this monument make sure you stand.

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