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The rose is a symbol; it's been one for years, Of love and devotion to soften the tears. A symbol of trueness, of calmness of heart; A symbol of courage that will not depart. While roses are living that symbol strikes true; But soon they grow weary, they wilt and they're through. You've loved me so much, Mom; (it's returned by your son), Our love fits that symbol in all ways but one; Our love will not perish nor drown in the rain; Like a rose made of crystal, our love will remain.
Wes Stephenson

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