What was the rose before it crowned its form?
It was the shadow of a dream unborn,
A promise carried on the wings of time,
A silent prayer, untold, sublime,
A secret held in depths where silence roams,
A whisper carried to the soul’s far home.

Then came the touch of Light, the gift of hue,
The perfume of longing, the blush of truth—
And the rose, once a mere thought of grace,
Became the soul’s own face.