The heart is like a flower,
Its petals seem so frail,
And yet, when plucked and broken
They seem to furl and fail.
A flame can burn the petals,
A hand can crush the stalk,
And leave it bent and withered
Upon the garden's walk.
The seeds will drift in autumn,
In spring, will sprout again
The flower one thorn greater
From pruning of a 'friend'.
Each day a child ages,
Each day a maiden sighs,
The flower-heart gets weaker
And poorer grow its dyes,
But even in the winter
It dares to rise its head
A leafless little creature
But not yet fully dead.
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