Love is like a rose.
When it is youthful,
it is beautiful and sweet,
gentle in the morning
and tender at night.
But when it grows old,
it is like the rose that draws blood with its thorns
during the time that comes for it to be plucked
from the very soil in which
it bathed boldly under the golden rays of the sun during the day
and in which it stood vainly to receive
the light kisses of the butterflies and bees
that danced around it.
And no use would it be to shed tears
from the prick of those thorns
in hopes of bringing back the beauty and gracefulness
that once existed in the rose.
For drenching flowers in salt water
would only make them die faster.
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