Graceful red caresses my lips,
a sensual bouquet through my senses tips,
petal soft touch, a caress my skin sips.
With playful thorns turned merrily out,
takes nothing from her splendor and beauty about.
No dear rose it is not you whom I speak,
but my love, my soul, my heart, my all,
who comes to me each morning,
and breaks through that wall,
of jaded bitter that surrounds my heart,
for my girl with her love,
makes those shadows depart.
To you belongs my every day.