Two hundred years this rose, did hide,
Pressed in a book, its blossom died.
Once, it was red and vibrant.
Plucked perhaps, by a lover, zapped?
Imagine the hand, which did accept.
The smile, the brilliance of the eyes.
Did love live on, beyond the day,
This rose was hidden and tucked away?
The sacrifice was surely not in vein?
For the rose, that was hidden and found today.

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