A crystal rose was hiding in a garden where shadows eternally grew,
This was a rose made of crystal and ice,
Its petals gleamed with a ghostly glow,
And its thorns pierced deep like a silent vice.
No fragrance drifted from its frozen bloom,
Only a chill that gnawed at the bone,
Fragments of sorrow entombed in the gloom,
Echoed around it in a hollow tone.
Its beauty was sharp as a midnight scream,
A relic of longing and unfulfilled grace,
Glistening coldly under the moon’s faint light,
Reflecting the void in its frozen facade.
Legends divulged that it was born from despair,
When a lover’s heart turned bitter and cold,
A cruel enchantment cast in the air,
Binding his grief in the crystal to hold.
Now it stood, unmoved by time’s cruel hand,
A relic of loss where no life could grow,
In the forsaken and frostbitten land,
Forever to haunt in the twilight’s glow.
Its petals shattered with a touch too near,
Leaving nothing but shards of forgotten woe,
For no warmth or love could ever draw near,
To the heart of the crystal rose below.
Beneath its roots lay a tale untold,
Of a grave where hopes and dreams were laid,
Entwined with frost and forever cold,
In the shadow where all light must fade.
The winds howled through the desolate night,
Melody of a love that was doomed from the start,
Their vestiges lingered, fragile and slight,
Like the faint, breaking beat of a glass heart.
The crystal rose endured in its sorrow’s embrace,
A monument to passion turned to stone,
Its silent beauty haunted this forgotten, forlorn place,
A relic of anguish, forever alone.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
