lives in thorne
smiles in thorne
sleeps on thorne
yet never cries
of her sufferings
Her each petal are more soft
than ever in creation
Her aroma applaudes
recites anthology of fragnance
though laithful
but never hides her beauty
her obesance quantify her beauty
morning breeze cherish
to have a bathe with her tulle pollen
so blows softly and cool
She is indubious in all seasons
In return the sun  confers her
his pink to make her pink
to make her pink
So, rose is pink