The Colour Of A Red Rose Poem by Christoph Praus
The Colour Of A Red Rose
Because what are seven perils unseen?
But dreamt lies,
Eaten as it seems;
The chunk enters now,
In wrought ironclad sense,
But we'll not see these days,
Within days within days;
I can't quite open up,
But it wasn't right,
And things ain't what they appear,
Not quite;
Cleaver, no, seethe and rise!
But I can't bring myself,
To cut this heat-red rose;
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/24/2024 4:53:00 AM # 1.0.0.1119
