Rose

Rose

The poor rose,

Blooming on thorns,

Exposed to sun,

Winds,

Enveloped in tender

Pink/white petals,

A divine form,

 King among flowers,

Pleasing everyone,

Humans, of course,

It does not know

It has a special

Internal fragrance,

That scents our insides

And irrigates our soul!

Like,

Good poetry,

Rose uplifts,

And adds beauty,

Colours,

To dull

Sterile lives,

In urban ghettos,

And relieves,

Smiling on a sad corner,

The pain and desolation

Of the many

 Miserable Auschwitz

Of the world brutal,

Then and now.