The Last Rose

The Last Rose

In a quiet village where the hills kissed the sky,

there bloomed a rose, the last of its kind,

red as a heartbeat, tender as a sigh,

clinging to life, as seasons left it behind.

Elara tended the garden with gentle hands,

her fingers tracing petals like fragile dreams.

She had loved once, in distant lands,

a love that lingered in whispers and streams.

His name was Kael, a traveler of seas,

who laughed like wind through the summer wheat.

He promised forever, beneath ancient trees,

yet fate had other plans for their hearts to meet.

The war came like a shadow, silent and swift,

tearing souls apart with invisible claws.

Kael was called, leaving her gift—a rift,

and in the garden, she nurtured her cause.

The last rose grew beside the old stone wall,

its fragrance a memory of warmth and sun.

Elara spoke to it when night would fall,

telling stories of Kael, of battles lost and won.

She planted hope between roots and thorn,

watering with tears that fell like rain.

Every petal a promise of love reborn,

every leaf a shield against lingering pain.

One morning, the air thick with the scent of rain,

a soldier arrived, boots muddy and worn.

Kael had returned, bearing stories of pain,

but his eyes searched for the one rose that had mourned.

“Kael,” she whispered, heart trembling with fear,

“the garden kept you alive in my prayers.”

He knelt beside her, brushing a tear,

and for a moment, all life felt theirs.

But the rose, red and fragile, bent in the breeze,

its petals quivering as if sensing a choice.

Elara knelt, feeling the pull, the silent pleas,

a voice echoing like Kael’s distant voice.

The rose would bloom for love, not for possession,

its life tied to freedom, not sorrow or regret.

She realized then, with quiet confession,

that love sometimes means letting go, not keeping yet.

“Kael,” she said, “our hearts can’t be chained.

This rose… it cannot be ours to hold.”

He looked, confusion shadowed and pained,

but he saw truth in the garden, fierce and bold.

Together, they knelt, hands brushing the soil,

and watched as the last rose released its bloom.

It swayed in sunlight, as if freed from toil,

its fragrance dissolving the heaviness of gloom.

No sword nor sorrow could touch that flower,

no war, no distance, no longing kept it bound.

It bloomed once more in that sacred hour,

its petals a symbol where love is found.

Kael held her hand, silent yet near,

and understood the weight of sacrifice unspoken.

Elara smiled, chasing away her fear,

knowing letting go had not left hearts broken.

The rose faded, leaving only memory,

its beauty eternal in stories retold.

Love remained, a gentle symphony,

not held in hands, but in hearts bold.

In the village, where hills still kiss the sky,

Elara walks through gardens of green.

She speaks to roses, letting tears dry,

and remembers the last rose that once had been.

For love is not possession, nor chains of desire,

but the courage to let go, to light the fire.

And though the rose is gone, the heart beats higher,

singing a story of love, sacrifice, and quiet pyre.