There is a lone and valiant rose
Clinging tenaciously to a stone.
He cannot see from whence she grows,
Yet she breathes a life much like his own.
From her stance, she would, he knows,
Be just as perfect in a vale
With dozens of her kindred - those
Growing safe and waxing pale.
But not a one regret she shows,
And flourishes so vividly
That he won't dare to so impose
Her spirit of tranquility.
The fairest of the flow'rs is she,
This solitary crimson rose.
Her beauty is so heavenly
Since on a precipice she grows.
Please review, danke...