Life was never a bed of roses
All my flowers grew as thorns
At the very sight of you which knew
The threats of the new warm vetiver smell
That you carried with you;
Dreadful, beyond the shadow of a doubt
Thorns that stung hitherto
Now rebuffed the attack of the
Most honored poison of my heart.
How I wish I could tame those briers
With time and time again
For you’d come and go in bits and pieces
Whenever is reasonable to you
Pricks that later lead to bleed
Mon chéri, are in fact incidental to you.