After a war there was a rose.
Blood soaked by battles of endless soldiers.
Not a thorn it has to cut, but as red as crimson can get.
It stood strong through the fire.
The beauty it has can only get higher.
After a flood stands a rose.
Its roots were washed and its peddles were torn.
Beauty it has still and not have a thorn.
Through the mud it still rays of red.
Even after all else was dead.
This rose it still stands for you.
When there is nothing you can do.
This rose will remind of peace;
resembles your undying beauty and strength.
This rose is for you and you should keep.
The eternal holiness that was planted by me.