A rose is of many colors
as it wilts it becomes buetiful
as every fragrent pedal drops
I think of you my mind is free
to wonder
were you are I'm loking for
as my love is spoke of
as a rose
your love is not resembled
by anything causes it is to
fare and true.
Copyright © 1999
This Home Page was created by WebEdit,Saturday, October 30, 1999
Most recent revision Saturday, October 30, 1999