song of eurydice's bridesmaides and persephone's handmaidens
we wrap her in the winding sheet
the heart that leapt has lost its beat
and from her breast a flower grows
it is the rose
a red red rose with thorns that prick
a maiden's eager fingertip
and at the root it feeds.
the rose never bleeds.
heed a maiden's song.
the rose knows no wrong.
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