Why do roses wear their thorns,

On tender stems so finely born?

A bloom so soft, a scent so sweet—

Yet guarded sharp where beauty meets.

Is it to warn the hand that takes,

That love can bloom, but also break?

Or just to say, “Not all that glows

Will let you pluck it as it grows.”

Perhaps the rose has learned to feel

The ache of those who only steal—

So in its grace, it leaves a mark,

To teach the dark to fear the spark.

And maybe we, like roses, hide

The pain we bear with strength and pride—

For beauty’s price is not so small:

A thorn to rise, and not to fall.