Primrose's poem
Every rose had its thorns.
Every flower wilts.
Every colours fades.
Something's are just fixtures in the wind.
There are creatures that die and re-live.
The sun hides behind the moon.
The trees die every year,
And then again they bloom.
Primrose died and now she is gone.
But nothing disappears forever.
Her memory will always live on, eternal.
My dear sister Prim.