The Admirer and the Rose

By Fiza   

Oh, red rose,
he, midst the thorns,
with supreme art,
waxed thou.
Seasons passed and
love did grow.
Last cough wheezed
and the wailing roared.
Wrapped in white,
the coffin soared.
Ye whispered,
"Oh, my fere,
whither thee go?"
And the dew drops poured.
Out of the cemetery,
cometh a lady
and plucked thou.
Oh, dearest rose,
what a fate,
to lie on thy admirer's grave.

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