A black rose blooms under the sun
In a garden with all the pretty red ones
Blessed with thorns a-one too many
While the others hardly had any
A man walking past the garden said
“Is that rose alive or dead?
Does it even matter though?
Why was he born? Would God even know?
Or would he?”
Hey, black rose. You’re as good as a dead man would be to me
…
The black rose wished he was in some other land
Where other black roses would call him a friend
And sometimes he wished he was all alone
The whole world, then, could be called his home
Everyone told him that he must change his skin
If he were to fit in their rosy team
He must change and mend his ways
Or be prepared for harder days
As they foresee
Hey, black rose. You’re as good as a dead man would be to me
…
He never listened to anyone and went ahead and led a lonely life
Pain and sorrow sought him like a butcher seeks his knife
While the red roses led jolly lives and had a merry time
And they grew up quick and strong. Happiness was their crime
They said they cared about him, as it goes
Even though he wore a black sheep’s clothes
But he refused to believe their words, as it went
The odds were changing each and every moment
Daily
Hey, black rose. You’re as good as a dead man would be to me
…
Now, on some terrible lonely night
He did see his final light
He went back out just as he had came
Lived in misery, died in shame
And then at the heaven’s gate
He found out that he was a little too late
The gates had been tightly shut
Only the doors of hell await
For him and for me
Hey, black rose. You’re as good as a dead man would be to me
Frank Solanki 