Like a cat steals on one lazy winter morning,
She drops few tears in the same brewery.
The lion prowls out of the bubble;
The son of the armada, Standing in a queue in the quay.
Her ashen face narrates myriad folklores;
Of a vagrant cub, Placid on the fiercer shores.
Uxorious never the brave ones are
But his pounding heart lays ajar;
The beauty of today's withering rose
Preserved in his mind, Secured in repose
A little drop cascades his querelous leer
And freezes off with just one fear :
SHOULD THE ROSE DIE WITH DISBELIEF BEFORE I GO LOVE IT AGAIN ?!?!?
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