What is love?
Thorns or wings? Rain or stars?
The Little Prince, with soulful eyes,
Gazed down at the rose, held her nigh.
He planted with such tender care,
In hands that cradled secrets rare.
Beside the roses, he did grow,
Pondering love’s deep ebb and flow.

Stars that glow and rain that falls,
Create a backdrop to his calls.
Wings adorned with sharp-edged thorns
Embrace him and the rose, adorned.
Together in this tender pose,
The Prince and his dear rose repose.