In the garden’s heart, the withered rose once stood weak,
Petals kissed by the sun, no longer adorned in velvet shroud.
With each dawn’s deadly whispers, her colours ceased to bloom,
Once a vibrant display that dispelled all gloom.
Her delight rang clear in the soft morning light,
As bees danced around her, a joyful delight.
Her fragrance enchanted, weaving spells in the air,
Every passerby paused, captivated and rare.
But time, that cruel thief with merciless claws,
Brought storms and droughts, testing all who could withstand them.
Now the withered rose droops in silence, colours bled,
Each crumbling petal was a monument to the dead.
Once an enchanting wonder, alive and bold,
Now, she cradles shadows where memories unfold.
Each petal and leaf that fell softly told tales of the past,
Of love unfulfilled and moments that couldn’t last.
Her roots stretched deep, clinging to what once was,
And even in fading, there’s beauty because
In her withered form, a tale still to disclose,
Of passion and sorrow, of boldness and woes.
In the twilight, where silence now reigns,
The withered rose stood alone, succumbing to grief’s sweet pains.
A vestige of devotion, of dreams twisted tight,
In the heart of decay, the past was enshrined.
And as the seasons turned with a gentle caress,
The rose revealed to the wind her distress,
For in every ending, there lies a new beginning,
In withering petals, the magic found its art.
Dreams collided with the weight of the night,
Each heartbeat a spell, flickers of light and dark,
In twilight’s grasp, her memories ignited like flames,
Fleeting shadows of instants lost to the night.
Beneath the dark sky, silence twisted and bent,
The withered rose waited, where sorrow descended.
Each sigh became a lament, each desire a still end.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
