The garden blooms not just with petals bright,
But thorns, they too possess a grace untold.
The garden blooms not just with petals light,
But thorns, their presence bravely, we behold.
To live, to breathe within this mortal sphere,
A need for sorrow, darkly, we embrace.
O, ignorant preacher, you speak of the end,
A judgment day, a fiery, final plea.
O, ignorant preacher, your warnings extend,
A cataclysm, for all the world to see.
Here, every day, new glances interlace,
Here, every day, a small apocalypse.
Here, every day, a small apocalypse.
They come to ask of woes I now conceal,
I cannot speak, nor can I silent stay.
They come to ask of wounds I now reveal,
Unable to speak, or to turn away.
If silence falls, a burden I must bear,
If words are spoken, then complaint prevails.
The wounds of sorrow, we must surely know,
These bitter tears, we must, perforce, consume.
The wounds of sorrow, we must undergo,
These bitter tears, within us must entomb.
With pleas and wails, O, ignorant of heart,
The very essence of love is defiled.
The tears that linger on the morning breeze,
Are not true tears, they're merely drops of rain.
The tears that linger on the gentle trees,
Are not true tears, they're merely drops again.
That tear that fails to spill from tearful eyes,
That tear, its value, lies in depths within.
The garden blooms not just with petals bright,
But thorns, they too possess a grace untold.
To live, to breathe within this mortal light,
A need for sorrow, darkly, we behold.
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