The moon sings to the crimson red flower, to bloom at midnight hour. Harmonizing with the pale lover's song, with languid movements of her own. Curling her blossoms, shaking her leafs — being as pretty as can be.

I watch as the rose gives itself to the moon, to luminescent light and angelic tune.
And while I lay in your arms, your glory bequeathed with a laurel wreath, our love promised with a diamond ring, I realize that the rose and I might just be the same thing.