The black rose stood lousily,
Hidden in a dump yard, like junk,
Bearing the fragrance of heaven,
It blossomed as much as it could,
Displaying the pattern of THE ARTIST,
You know, the who is found in the mist...
With the texture of wet cotton,
Followed by infinite thorn steps,
It lay there lousily, hidden...
I wonder why it was forgotten?
I wonder why it was a black rose?
~ Kripa Sarkar
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