January 4, 2000*

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Is that my rose that’s in your hand?

Did you mean to keep it? If not, I understand.

But if you did mean it, then you must know from the start

That with the rose is a part of my heart.

If you’ll take my rose with you, what would you do?

Will you hide it or throw it of keep it safe with you?

If they that it’s lovely and how sweet it smells,

Will you say it’s from me or it’s from someone else?

Is my rose a sign of friendship, of affection and love,

Or is it an annoyance like the scorching sun above?

Was it OK to you, or was it not?

Will you treasure the rose or just plainly let it rot?

Yet I see no point in trying to see

If the rose that you have is really from me.

All that matters is that I can say

That somehow I managed to brighten up you day.

All that I wish is for you to be happy

Though the person who’ll make you happy is not me,

And whatever happens, whatever you do,

I will always be here for you.

Is that my rose that’s in your hand?

Did you mean to keep it? If not, I understand.

But if you did mean it, then you must know from the start

That with the rose is a part of my heart.

*A day when the blindness that love cast over me started to lift up.

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