The rose commanded my obeisance, and accordingly I bowed my head, acknowledging its beauty and perfection, and taking - when my face was close - a memory picture in my eye to take away with me.
Such impertinence, for while I leant and gazed, the clothing I wore brushed against its stem and though I would have stepped away, I was held in its embrace.
The petals, soft and soaked in colour, smiled - and smiled still though a thorn had made my fumbling finger bleed, and round that rose my blood was spilled - and fed the rose I loved.
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