The sun's rays are on a garden's white roses.
Reflections dance brush like,
Painting white, yellow and pink colours,
So proud of themselves as the guard of innocence
They make no pretension to the beauty challenge.
Instantaneous whispers of happiness rise from the roses,
As if all time would hide in the beauty of this moment.
The poet's pen is not strong enough to tell of their melody.
The roses know this and smile to her silently.
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