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The last rose of summer

Stubbornly sends forth buds even as the weather cools

And  leaves on trees change colour

The rose, like hope itself, hangs on

Shooting forth one last burst of beauty

As summer fades

The promise of the rose seems to say

“I will not die”

The morning dew has turned to frost

But the rose cares not

It knows that as the day wears on the sun will warm it

What knowledge does the flower hold

That we do not?

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