From the night sky, the moon gazed at a rose.
The darkness complemented all the sounds.
Under the sycamore, the rose did pose.
The winds shifted the leaves that were now browned.

A child tiptoed through the dark thorn bush.
Scratches and cuts made way across her skin.
She didn’t cry, she didn’t scream, a hush.
Closer she came to the rose as if kin.

The flower shook and quivered from her sight.
She bent under moonlight, no noise heard still.
The trees stood still, waiting for a dark fight.
The girl reached and gently felt the soft rose.

The forest breathed and sighed in relief.
She left without a sound, the night now closed.