“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until
the hour of separation.”
― Kahlil Gibran
I love red roses; she did reveal once
Though he never got one for her,
She persistently believed; in the mystical power
Of love.
And today, here he was; holding them;
The bunch of red roses, standing composed,
But couldn’t resist his tears, as here she reposed,
Stoically.
Powerless, he wept, with regrets, and watched;
Her taking leave of this world,
In her coffin she lay furled,
In peace.
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