As the roses upon the thorny bush grow,

Everlasting is their beauty, their promise, their hope.

As the youth plucks the flower for his love,

Upon his doublet falls a droplet of blood.

He felt neither prick nor thorn,

For the abscence of his love makes him forlorn.

But once the first droplet was spilt,

His hand wavered, and he grabbed his dagger's hilt.

For his blood was the same color as the soft petals of the rose,

So surely, if he bled some more,

                      a bouquet would grow.