She smiles with all her colours,
And protects with the thorns.
Like an Arabian perfume, she smells,
Sometimes she stinks, just like the rebels.
She dances like a child, but can hold one,
She is the gloomy, coated with fun.
She falls with her despair,
But as a constant, always she grows.
She grows like those tiny blossoms
Without care, but ready to love.
She is the strongest with weakest bosom,
Occasionally the Eagle, always the Dove...