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A Plague Infects the Roses

Donald P. Goodman III

Version 1.0 (10 September 1202)

Fell plague infects the roses; blooming soft and fair,

now black and putrid; blossoming, they decompose

with reeking, rotting stench; though dying in dispair

of its own stinking death, it spreads and overgrows

its quarantine, until it's choked out healthy blooms

with its contagion, wilting purity with sick

till sallow pestilence o'er all the garden looms

like clouds all dark and heavy, but unworldly quick

will dump their life-destroying hail; but plague will stay

and spread and poison all, e'er fouler and more thick

until no more do fair and sweet the roses lay,

but dank and sick amidst the darkness of the day.

How can the garden e'er be sav'd when all the blooms

are reeking in their wretchedness, are dark and dead?

Behold! E'en those who've fought and still show bright like plumes

are overwhelm'd by all the nightmares in the bed!

But still the sower never ceases casting seed,

though some falls on the stones, and some falls to the side,

and very many grow; but seeking sun to feed,

are chok'd by thorns of plague, which cannot health abide.

But though the plague seems endless and without defeat,

some seed will grow to join the few who plague defied;

can health infect a sickness, force it to retreat?

force overwhelming pestilence to yield its seat?

The healthy rose blooms with a color not its own,

for its own light is darken'd by the fell disease

and made to shine no more, dark, ugly, and alone,

though e'er surrounded by the others it would please.

Oh, no; the healthy rose must empty out its soul

and draw its life from deepest roots and sun on high,

surrender its own movements to the sun's control,

make room for meat and drink that never runneth dry.

For though the garden now seems dark as darkest night,

the sun will e'er arise, no matter how we thole;

this plague by prayer and fasting must the healthy fight;

this darkness only yields unto the highest light.

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