I pick Violets for my true love,
For the wreath in her short red-dyed hair.
Like the women of old had them hidden and lovely,
Small Violets have never been fair.
Bruises will bloom in her pale soft skin,
Spreading fast and so mercilessly.
She hides them with haste fearing all of their thorns,
But I kiss her with sure certainty.
Roses are red like her lips in the summer,
Her smiles, like Violets, aren't blue.
They say that a bottle of vodka is cheaper
Than a nice dinner made just for two.
They don't see what happens to those who hide Violets
In sleeves made for girls who would shatter.
They whither and die without their bright skies,
So for us it's no choice, it's the latter.
Violets can hide beneath skin of all colours
And can sprout amidst brambles and tears.
They colour my dreams in the purest of shades,
Milky pastel and lavender for years.
Embrace all the Violets you meet in your life,
And hold them until you depart.
They bloom and encircle your soul with their love,
And cradle your small, fragile heart.