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>A red rose rests upon a grave,
>With blood upon its thorns.
>No one knows who placed it there,
>Or for whom the red rose mourns.
>Raindrops fall in disarray,
>And mingle with the blood.
>They twist and writhe in little pools,
>And feed the yearning bud.
>Granite cracks and crumbles,
>And engravings fade away.
>The flower blooms and multiplies
>And thrives on the decay.
>The red rose slowly withers,
>And the petals disappear.
>Though the clouds may shift and roll,
>They always fail to clear.
>A child stares down at a grave,
>And runs a finger o’er the thorns.
>She sits there slowly wondering,
>For whom the red rose mourns.
>Copyright Adam Kamerer, 2002
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