Poem: The Rose

A rose in bloom, so pure, so fair,
With velvet petals, soft as air.
Its fragrance drifts on morning’s breeze,
A whispered song among the trees.

In gardens green, it stands alone,
A queen upon her regal throne.
Her crimson blush, a silent plea,
A language known to none but me.

Beneath the thorns, her secrets hide,
A gentle strength, a tender pride.
Each stem a story, each leaf a sigh,
A fleeting love that dares not die.

The rose, she grows with sun and rain,
Through winds that tear and skies that wane.
And though her beauty may not last,
Her memory lingers, ever fast.

So in her bloom, I see the truth—
That love, like roses, has its youth.
Yet even when the petals fall,
Its fragrance stays, beyond them all.