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A rose you are, people say,
And to love you I am made.
To trick my senses, day-to-day
With roses born to fade.

From before this earth was made to spin
I say that my dream was you.
In spite of your eyes, I crave to win
Your lies, that to me aren’t true.

Since people slay their sons for gold,
Your two-timing none can blame.
Desire and sense have no school-book told,
To let it flow is not a shame.

So, to keep the rose, hold it at bay,
Though sorrow from its fragrance is born.
But, desire: he is master of his own fond way,
Asks: are you to love the rose once its gone?


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