Wild Rose
In the proper garden east of France
Wild rose arose in the edge of hedge
She is a fresh, fragrance of youth,
Flower of beauty, color of truth
Oh my, the gardener sighed, a rose arose in the edge of hedge
What a disgrace, he groaned in rage
What will they say, what will they do
When they find out about her bloom
He was a gardener never the less, a proper man who stands no mess
So pick the trimmer he did in haste and trimmed off her flower to tidiness
All of her radiance, fragrance abound, petals of beauty, magnificence
He did this often when she would plume tidy her up sheer of her bloom
The gardener grew wrinkly, pale and old strength has left him as did resolve
The hedge keeps growing wild and thick but now and then within its mass
Within the shrub, thick ghastly branch, within the wall of lifeless bark
The rose arises once again because she must that's what she does
She can't remember who she is, but a faint glimpse of what once was
All of her radiance, fragrance of youth, exquisite wonder, colors of truth
Hence, the Wild rose in bloom in the edge of hedge will once again dance
in not so proper garden, in the east of France.
I hope you like it,
Love, Alexia
