Complain And Rejoice
by Ismim Putera
As the rose bushes have thorns,
You run and hide away from it,
Or you stand and stare beside it,
The roses will wilt on the stack of thorns.
As the thorn bushes have roses,
Cut your hand to bleed a bit,
Scratch your heart to suffer a little,
Then you will forever rest on the bed of roses.