The same rose, still ablaze scorching red,
A ****** from realms yet untread,
That unfolds upon the ancient, earthen bed—
But heed the thorn; this way one cannot tread.
Every morning the nightingale sings her song,
Leaps into melody, ere the day grows long.
Down the moon’s open eye, once strong,
To unlock the door, one must belong.
In the quietude, beneath the moon’s aged grace,
Maybe lies a key forged in shadow,
The sun slides down, lights a candle at a silent pace.
Who claims this boon, who dares to embrace,
Must know the rose’s fire, the nightingale’s chase.
