II. The Shadowed Garden

The roses bloom with equal flame and thorn,

their petals bright, their fragrance edged with pain.

The morning gold reveals what night has worn,

and joy returns, yet sorrow walks again.

Each path is lined with whispers of the past,

the vines remember every step I take.

The blossoms flare, but shadows gather fast,

a beauty born of loss I can’t forsake.

Yet still the garden breathes, it will not die;

its roots entwine with silence and with song.

The dark becomes the soil where colors lie,

and love remakes what grief has kept too long.

So in this place both grief and glory meet:

a rose is whole—its light, its thorn, complete.