Hand over hand I climb
Your smooth stem decorated with thorns.
At each sharp tip I stop and pay my price.

Far above, red passion calls
With a voice so loud it drowns my cries of pain,
The colour of my blood an echo of that call.

At last I sink my grateful soul within your petals;
The aroma of your essence swirls.
The memory of past trials erased,
I float bodiless in bliss.