Come child, the sun is gone leave the land of animal whim. That shrub, to which you were so drawn, nod goodbye, it's not your kin. A flower you loved not for being a rose, but 'cause from the ones that grow, it was your's to claim. Come put that rose to rest, there are more; just the same. Waiting to love, from all those who pick, you; who glimpsed and on a whim, picked this rose in your childish game.