We are the roses in the garden
Beauty with thorns among our leaves
To pick a rose you ask your hands to bleed
What is the reason for having roses
When your blood is shed carelessly?
It must be for something, more than vanity
Believe me, the truth is we're not honest
Not the people that we dream
We're not as close as we could be
Willing to grow but rains are shallow
Barren and wind scattered seed
on stone and dry land we will
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